AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


OF 


AN  ACTRESS; 


OR, 


EIGHT    YEARS    ON    THE    STAGE 


ANNA    CORA    MO  WATT. 


"  Every  family  is  a  history  in  itself,  and  even  a  poem,  to  those  who  know  ho\ 
to  read  its  pages."  LAJCAETIJT*. 


FOURTH    THOUSAND.- 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LIT. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  I«j3,  by 

AXNA  CORA  MOWATT, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED, AT    THE 
BOSTON*     STEREOTYPE      F  O  IT  N  D  K  7  . 


INTRODUCTION 


MY  autobiography  needs  no  preface.  Its 
apology  is  a  promise,  made  to  one  who  had  the 
best  right  to  demand  such  a  pledge,  that  before 
I  retired  from  the  profession  I  had  adopted  I 
would  publish  a  record  of  my  life's  experiences  — 
a  promise  now  rendered  sacred  by 

"  The  instinct 

Which  makes  the  honored  memory  of  the  dead 
A  trust  with  all  the  living." 

If  one  struggling  sister  in  the  great  human 
family,  while  listening  to  the  history  of  my  life, 
gain  courage  to  meet  and  brave  severest  trials  ; 
if  she  learn  to  look  upon  them  as  blessings  in 
disguise  :  if  she  be  strengthened  in  the  perform- 

(3) 

S594031 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

ance  of  "  daily  duties,"  however  "  hardly  paid  ;  n 
if  she  be  inspired  with  faith  in  the  power  im 
parted  to  a  strong  will,  whose  end  is  good, — 
then  I  am  amply  rewarded  for  my  labor. 

ANNA  CORA  MOWATT. 

RAVENSWOOD,  NEW  YORK, 
December  7,  1853. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I.  PAOX 

My  Father.  —  Miranda  Expedition.  —  My  Mother.  —  Early  Rec 
ollections. —  La  Castagne.  —  Description  of  La  Castagne  by 
my  Brother  Charles.  —  Jour  de  Vendange.  —  St.  Foy. — Fu- 
ne'ral  Solemnities  of  our  Pets.  —  Les  Compliments  on  the 
Anniversary  of  our  Parents'  Birthdays.  —  A  first  Effort. — 
Othello  in  French.  —  My  Debut.  —  Bo'urdeaux.  —  Embarking 
for  New  York.  —  Sea  Voyage.  —  Shipwreck.  —  Loss  of  a 
Brother.  —  Description  by  my  Brother  Charles  of  Storm  and 
Wreck.  —  Return  to  Havre.  —  Second  Sailing,  and  Arrival  in 
New  York.  —  School  Days.  —  Passion  for  Poetry.  —  Juvenile 
Doggerel.  —  First  Words  of  Praise.  —  Boarding  School.  — 
Dramatic  Representations  at  Home.  —  Performance  of  Al- 

zire.  —  Early  Prejudices  against  Theatres.  —  Bishop  E n. 

—  Fanny  Kernble.  —  First  Visit  to  the  Park  Theatre.  —  Im 
pressions.  —  The  Misses  Wheatley, 13 

CHAPTER    II. 

My  eldest  Sister.  —  First  Acquaintance  with  Mr.  Mowatt.  — 
Singular  Impressions.  — Sudden  Project  of  educating  a  Child 
for  a  Wife.  —  Madam  Chegaray's  School.  —  Alzire.  —  Attempt 
at  an  Offer  frustrated.  —  the  first  Love  Letter. —A  Refusal 
and  a  Consent.  —  My  Father's  Stipulations.  —  A  Wedding 
Party  without  a  Bride".  —  Preparations  for  the  Performance  of 
the  Drama  of  the  Mourning  Bride.  —  Effect  of  a  Lover's  Mel 
ancholy.  —  A  Promise.  —  The  Confidant.  —  Novel  Mode  of 
procuring  and  preparing  a  bridal  Wardrobe.  —  Adventures.  — 
Refusal  "of  three  Clergymen  to  perform  the  Ceremony.  —  A 
runaway  Wedding.  —  Rencontre  with  a  Father.  —  A  Child 
keeps  a"  Secret.  —  A  Farewell.  —  Breaking  the  News.  —  "  The 
Bride's  Flower."  —  The  Pardon.  —  Bridal  Celebration, .  .  .  41 

CHAPTER    III. 

Studies. — Flatbush. —  Purchase  of  Estate  that  had  belonged 
to  General  Giles.  —  Haunted  House. — My  Sister  May.  —  Our 
juvenile  Sports  and  Mode  of  Life.  —  Number  of  Books  read 
and  commented  upon  every  Year.  —  Shooting  Excursions.  — 
A  first  Sorrow.  —  Death  of  our  Mother.  —  Melrose. —  Sun 
day  School. — Fortune  Teller  of  the  Fair.—  Pelayo.  —  Review 
ers  Reviewed.  —  Celebration  of  Seventeenth  Birthday.  —  Bur 
lesque  Concerts.  —  Tableaux.  —  The  Gypsy  Wanderer.  —  Bri 
dal  Address. —  111  Health.  *—  Departure  for  Europe, .  ...  61 

(5) 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

Journal  of  a  Week  passed  in  London.  —  Olympi 
Madame  Vestris.  — St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  — The  Tower.  — The 
Tunnel.  —  ItaliajaQpera.  —  Persiani.  —  Coliseum.  —  ZoOlogi-' 
cal  Gardens.  —  Hyae  Park.  —  Madame  Tussaud's.  —  St. 
James's  Theatre.  —  House  of  Lords.  —  Westminster.  —  Brit 
ish  Museum.  —  Kensington  Gardens.  —  Richmond.  —  Stand 
ing  "  in  wait "  for  the  Queen.  —  Departure  from  London,  .  .  76 

CHAPTER   V. 

Hamburg.  —  Bremen.  —  American  Ladies  supposed  to  be  black. 

—  Incident  at  a  Dinner  Party.  —  Bridal  Address  translated 
into  German.  —  Usages  and  Manners  of  the  Northern  Ger 
mans.  —  Dinner  Parties.  —  Funeral    Customs.  —  Betrothal 
and  Bridal  Customs.  —  Bremen  Cathedral.  —  Peculiarity  of 
the  Vault.  —  Corpses  four  Centuries  old  in  a  State  of  Preser 
vation. —  Robbing  the  Student  of  a  Lock  of  Hair.  —  Frei 
Markt.  —  Our  Housekeeping   in  Germany.  —  Studies.  —  Ar 
rival  of   Mr.  Mowatt.  —  His  long  Illness.  —  Departure  for 
Paris 88 

CHAPTER   VI. 

Paris.  —  Unexpected  Friends. — Visit  to  Hahnemaim.  —  Mrs. 
Hahnemann.  —  Her  History.  —  New  Physicians.  —  Recovery 
of  Sight. —  Parisian  Gayeties.  —  Description  of  Ball  at  Col. 

T n's.  —  The  Carnival. — General  C ss. — Rachel  and 

her  Sisters.  — Facilities  of  Education  in  France.  — American 
Copy  of  Parisian  Manners.  —  Male  and  female  Politicians. — 
Louis  Philippe.  —  St.  Germain  Society.  —  Place  de  la  Con 
corde.  —  Place  Vendome.  —Place  du  Carrousel.  — Fountains. 

—  Arc  de  Triomphe  de  1'Etoile. —  Tuileries. —  Les  Champs 
Elysees.  —  Bois  de  Boulogne.  — Studies  resumed.  —  Play  for 
private   Representation    commenced.  —  Scenery  painted   in 
Paris.  —  Sailing  for  America, 112 

CHAPTER    VII. 
A  Play  without  Heroes.  —  Rehearsals.  —  Incident  in  the  Barn. 

—  Gulzara,  or  the  Persian  Slave.  —  Publication  of  Play.  — 
Critique  from  New  World.  —  Fondness  for   Speculations. — 
Loss  of  Property,  and  utter  Ruin.  —  Musings  in  the  Arbor. 
— My  Sister  Charlotte.  —  A  Project.  —  Preparations  for  a  new 
Career.  —  The  last  Farewell  to  a  beloved  Home, 132 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

Boston.  —  Mrs.  B s.  —  A  Ball-room  Acquaintance  converted 

into  a  stanch  Friend. —  Boston  Friendships.  —  Morning  at  the 
Temple.  —  Heartsickness.  —  The  old  Doorkeeper's  Encour 
agement. —  My  Father's  Letter.  —  Inherited  Traits. — First 
Appearance  in  public.  —  Sensations.  —  A  first  Success.  —  Sec 
ond  and  third  Readings.  —  Lenient  Critics.  —  Reading  in  Prov 
idence.  —  The  Missing  Ship.  —  Readings  in  New  York. — Fall- 


CONTENTS. 


ing  awav  of  old  Friends.  —  Reading  at  Rutger's  Institute  for 
Young  Ladies.  —  Readings  at  Society  Library.  —  Illness.  — 
Article  in  Ladies'  Companion.  —  Mrs.  Osgood's  Poem.  — 
Imitators.  —  Offer  of  Park  Theatre.  —  Letter  from  Professor 
Hows, U-3 

CHAPTER    IX. 

Mesmerism.  —  The  Phenomenon  of  Double  Consciousness. — 
Somnambulic  Incidents.  —  Townshend.  —  Miss  Martineau's 
Misuse  of  Mesmeric  Facts.  —  First  Acquaintance  \vith  the 
Writings  of  Swedenborg. —  Influence  of  New  Church  Doc 
trines. —  Joining  the  Church.  —  Four  Sisters  also  becoming 
Members. — Writings  of  my  eldest  Sister. — Letter  on  Mes 
meric  Somnambulism.  —  Revisiting  former  Residence.  — 
Lenox. — The  Sedgwicks. —  Friendships  with  School  Girls. 

—  Getting  up  of  Miss  Sedgwick's  Play.  —  Crowning  of  their 
Stage  Manager  by  the  Scholars.  —  Conversations  with  Rev. 
Dr.  WlffiaJD  Ellery  ChanrJng.  —  The  Future  Life,     ....  153 

CHAPTER   X. 

Contributions  to  Magazines.  —  The  Fortune  Hunter.  —  Miscel 
laneous  Bookmaking.  —  Evelyn.  —  Amusing  Proposition  from 
an  English  Publisher.  —  Sing"ular  Mode  of  violating  a  Copy 
right.  —  Mary  Howitt's  Mention  of  the  three  Orphans.  — 
Little  FstEefT1—  DeatbTBed  of  the  Mother.  —  One's  Neigh 
bors.  —  Drive  to  Harlem.  —  Search  for  the  Greys.  —  A  blind 
Father.  —  Margaret.  —  Death  of  her  Father  and  Mother.  — 
Johnny  and  Willie, 184 

CHAPTER    XI. 

Fashion.  —  Original  of  Adam  Trueman.  —  Fashion  accepted  by 
the  Park  Theafre.  —  Interview  with  Mr.  Barry.  —  Witness 
ing  aTinsTTJeEelirsal  unseen.  —  First  Night  of  Fashion. — 
Success.  —  Second  Rehearsal.  —  Author's  Benefit.  — Fashion 
produced  at  Philadelphia.  —  Invitations  from  Managers  of 
Walnut  Street  Theatre.  —  Their  Liberality  and  Courtesy.  — 
Witnessing  Performance  in  Philadelphia.  —  Demand  for  the 
Author.  —  Failure  of  Mr.  Mowatt.  —  Proposition  that  I  should 
adopt  the  Stage. — A  Change  of  Views. — Reflections. — 
Mary  Howitt  on  the  Members  of  the  Profession.  —  A  Deter 
mination.  —  My  Father's  Consent.  —  Contract  with  Mr.  C . 

—  Useless  Remonstrances, 202 

CHAPTER    XII. 

Preparations  for  Debut.  —  First  Rehearsal  with  the  Company. 

—  Stage  Fright.  —  Star  Dressing  Room.  —  Call  Boy's  Amuse 
ment.  —  A  Boast  opportunely  recalled.  —  Rising  of  the  Cur 
tain.  —  The  Debut.  —  Second  Appearance  in  public.  —  Wal 
nut  Street  Theatre.  —A  distressing  Incident.  —  Indignation 
of  an  Audience.  —  Painful  Discovery.  —  Conclusion  of  En 
gagement. —  Fashion  performed  for'Mjr.  Blakej§_  Benefit. — 
First  Appearance  as  Gertrude,    .    .    '. 219 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

The  first  Year  on  the  Stage.  —  Two  Hundred  Performances.  — 
Amount  of  Study. — Lady  Teazle's  untimely  Drowsiness. — 
First  Shakspearian  Impersonation.  —  Difference  between  Re 
hearsing  and  Acting.  —  Juliet's  Tomb.  —  Scene  Shifter's  sepul 
chral  Prediction.  — "Novel  Substitute  for  a  sleeping  Potion.  — 
Death  of  Paris  by  a  Novice.  —  XJVQ  Schools  of  ^Acting. — 
Anecdote  of  a  Stranger.  —  Mrs.  Haller's  colored  Descendants. 

—  Incident  in  Charleston.  —  Address  to  the  Charleston  Vol 
unteers.  —  Complimentary  Entertainment    in    Savannah.  — 
Relationship  which  Actors  hold  to  each  other, 233 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

Mr.Davenport.-'-  Accident  in  Baltimore.  —  Second  Southern 
\Touh  —  Reading  at  Macon.  —  Columbus.  —  Montgomery.  — 
First  Acquaintance  with  Henry  Clay.  —  His  Recollections  of 
Miss  O'Neil. —  His  poetical  ObTiviousness.  —  Five  Days  on 
board  of  the  Alexander  Scott.  —  Clay's  Injunction  to  me  as 
we  passed  Memphis.  —  Mr.  Davenport's  Entertainment  of 
Mr.  Clay.  —  Personation  of  a  "Down-east"  Yankee.  —  Im 
promptu  Song  to  Henry  Clay.  —  Arrival  at  LouisAdlle —  A 
last  Farewell.  —  Opening  of  the  Athenocum  at  Cincinnati. — 
Inaugural  Address.  —  ComplimenfToTSIrTTfavenport.  —  Close 
of  my  second  Year  on  the  Stage.  —  Armand.  —  A  Sisterhood 
of  Critics.  —  Mr.  Mowatt's  Visit  to  England  to  arrange  with 
Managers.  —  Mr.  Macready's  Advice.  —  Engagement  for  Man 
chester. —  Production  of  Armand  at  the  Park  Theatre  and  in 
Boston.  —  Last  Night  in  America.  —  Letters  from  Henry  Clay. 

—  Sailing  for  Europe 253 

CHAPTER   XV. 

Arrival  in  Liverpool.  —  The  Rev.  Mr.  S n  and  Mrs.  S n. 

—  Manchester  Critics.  —  First  Rehearsal  at  Theatre  Royal, 
Manchester.  —  First  Night  in  England.  —  Manchester  Guar 
dian. —  Engagement  at  Princesses'  Theatre,  London.  —  Dis 
tressing  Rehearsals. —  The  two  Helens. — Miss  Susan  Gush- 
man. —  Visitation  from   the   Mistress   of   the   Wardrobe. — 
Petty  Miseries. — The  Trials  of  a  first  Night.  —  First  Attack 
of  "  Stage  Fright."  —  A  near  Approach  to  Failure.  —  Sudden 
Transition.  —  Success  at  the  eleventh  Hour, 267 

CHAPTER    XVI. 

London  Editors.  —  The  Daily  Times  and  the  Earl  of  Carlisle. — 
Mr.  Macready. — Personal  Acquaintance  and  friendly  Services. 

—  First  Engagement  at  Theatre  Royal  Olympic. — Lady  of 
Lyons.  —  Ret'ngagement  in  Conjunction  with  Mr.  Brooke. — 
The  Lords  of  Ellingham. —  Accident  on  first  Night's  Repre 
sentation. —  Mary  Howitt. —  Her  Artist  Daughter.  —  Camilla 
Crosland.  —  Poem.  —  Mr.   Macready's    Farewell   at  Theatre 
Royal,  Marylebonc. —  Our  Engagement.  —  Succession  of  Re- 
engagements. —  Permanent  Stars.  —  "  Shadow  on  the  Wall." 

—  Armand  produced  in  London.  —  Note  from  "W.  J.  Fox,  M. 


CONTENTS.  V 

P.,  on  the  Morning  of  Representation.  —  His  Critique  in  the 
Examiner.  —  Publication  of  Play.  —  Effect  of  Play  Books  in 
the  Theatre  upon  Actors.  —  A  Prompter's  Anecdo'te.  —  Pres 
entation  of  Silver  Vase.  —  The  Witch  Wife,  283 

CHAPTER    XVII. 

Travelling.  —  Stratford  upon  Avon.  —  An  Avon  Boatman's  Ideas 
of  Shakspeare.  —  Housekeeper  of  Warwick  Castle,  and  Mrs. 
Siddons. —  Isle  of  Wight.  —  Cottage  at  Richmond. — Vigor 
ous  Health.  —  Reopening  of  the  Marylebone.  —  A  Fairy-like 
Dressing  Room.  —  Velasco.  —  Virginia.  —  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

—  Close  of  the  Season.  —  Entertainment  upon  the  Stage.  — 
A  Ballet   Girl  nearly  burned  to   Death.  —  Mrs.   Renshaw's 
Presence  of  Mind  and  Heroism.  —  General  Opinion  of  Ballet 
Girls.  —  A  few  Truths  concerning  the  Profession.  —  History 

of  Georgina,  the  Ballet  Girl, 304 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 

Illness  of  Mr.  Mowatt.  —  Voyage  to  Trinidad.  —  New  Olympic 
Theatre.  —  Powerful  Company.  —  Abolishing  the  "Star  Sys 
tem."  —  Opening  Night  of  the  Olympic  Theatre.  —  A  Black- 
garbed  Audience.  —  Refusal  to  appear  in  Mourning.  —  A 
white  Compromise.  —  Inaugural  Address  written  by  Albert 
Smith.  —  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  —  Queen  Adelaide's 
Wardrobe.  —  Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  —  Twelfth  Night.  — 
Othello.  —  The  Noble  Heart.  —  First  Production  of  Fashion 
in  London.  —  Critics.  —  Punch's  Rebuke  to  the  Morning 
Post.  —  The  Farce  of  Floral  Showers.  —  Critique  from  the 
Sun.  —  Literary  Gazette. — The  Sentiments  of  Adam  True- 
man  hissed.  — The  American  and  English  Personators  of  Pru 
dence. —  Mental  Discipline  of  Actors.  —  Illustrative  Sketches. 

—  Mrs.  Parker.  — Mrs.  Knighf. —  Three  Histories, .     .     .     .318 

CHAPTER    XIX. 

Ariadne.  —  English  Version,  by  John  Oxenford.  —  Closing  Catas 
trophe.  —  The  three  Ariadnes.  —  Leaping  the  Rock.  —  Marie 
de  Meranie.  —  The  Misanthrope.  — Uxmal.  —  Lovers'  Amuse 
ments.  —  Jealousy  of  Actors.  —  Afflicting  Tidings.  —  Loss  of 
Memory.  —  Disas'trous  Close  of  the  Olympic  Theatre.  — 
Charge*  brought  against  the  Manager.  —  Attack  of  Brain 
Fever.  —  First  Consciousness.  —  Dr.  AV tt's  Communica 
tions. —  The  Manager's  Trial.  —  Conviction.  —  Insanity. — 
Self-Destruction.  —  Mr.  Mowatt's  Return  to  England.  — 
Shorn  Tresses.  —  Journey  to  Malvern, 332 

CHAPTER    XX. 

Cottage  at  Malvern.  —  Malvern  Hills.  —  Water-cure  Establish 
ment.  —  Donkey  Rides.  —  Malvern  Donkey  Driver.  —  Adven 
tures  on  Horseback.  —  Hanly  Castle.  —  Return  to  London.  — 
Skill  of  Dr.  D n.  —  A  Sufferer's  Contemplation  of  Death. 

—  Interview  with  Dr.  D n.  —  Life's  hardest  Necessity.  — 

A  last  Conversation.  —  The  Parting, 342 


10  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

The  Iron  Duke. — Arrival  in  Dublin.  —  A  Dilemma.  —  "  Unpro 
tected  Females."  —  Interview  with,  theatrical  Housekeeper. 

—  Hunting  for  Lodgings.  —  The  invisible  Avant  Courtier.  — 
Mr.  Calcraft.  —  G.  V.  Brooke.  —  First  Rehearsal.  —  Debut  at 
Theatre   Royal.  —  Dublin   Audience.  —  Attachment    of   the 
Irish  to  America.  — The  Freeman's  Journal.  —  Production  of 
Armand.  —  Peculiarities  of  the  Dublin  Pit  and  Gallery.  — 
Persecution  of  an  Actor.  —  An  amusing   Device.  —  My  last 
Night. — Scene  at  the  Stage  Door.  —  Dublin  Friends.  —  The 
Invalid  in  London.  —  Extracts  from  his  daily  Letters.  —  En 
gagement  at  Newcastle  upon  Tyne.  —  Departure  from  Dublin,  351 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Recrossing  the  Channel.  —  Night  on  Deck.  —  Arrival  at  Liver 
pool.  —  Carlisle.  — Newcastle  upon  Tyne.  —  Mail  Disappoint 
ments.  —  First  Rehearsal.  —  Its  Interruption.  —  The  three 
Letters.  —  Sad  Announcement  of  the  Third.  —  Mr.  Davis.  — 
Sudden  Return  to  London.  —  The  Death  Bed.  —  Last  Hours. 

—  A  dying  Look.  —  The  peaceful  passing  away.  —  Hospital 
ities.  —  A  Flower-decked  Grave.  —  Floral  Offerings  of  Friends. 

—  Farewell  Letters.  —  Last  Wishes.  —  The  last  Adieu.  — 
Provincial  Tour.  —  Memoir  by  Bayle  Bernard.  —  Return  to 
America, 364 

CHAPTER    XXIII. 

Accident  on  board  of  the  Steamship  Pacific.  —  Midnight  Scene 
in  the  Cabin.  —  Arrival  in  New  York.  —  Adventurous  Night 
Journey  to  Ravenswood.  —  Rousing  the  Slumberers.  —  Meet 
ings  in  the  Dark.  —  Our  second  Mother.  —  The  general  Home. 

—  Reunion  of  the  ten  Sisters. '—  A  Christening.  —  Engage 
ment  at  Niblo's   Theatre.  —  Acting   and  its  Necessities.  — 
Anecdote  of  Mr.  Macready.  —  Mademoiselle  Mars.  —  Conver 
sation  with  Planche,  the  Dramatist.  —  His  Advice.  —  Pro 
fessor  Hows.  —  Dramatic  Studies.  —  Engagement  at  Boston, 
Providence,    Philadelphia,   Baltimore,    Cincinnati,    and    St. 
Louis.  —  Letter  from  His  Honor  the  Mayor  of  St.  Louis,  J. 
M.  Kenneth.  —  Complimentary  Benefit  declined.  —  Proposed 
Christmas  Festivities  in  Philadelphia.  —  A  Family  Gathering,  374 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 

Waiting  of  the  Steamboat  Robert  Rogers  to  take  us  on  board. 

—  Starting   at  Midnight.  —  Sudden   Freezing   of   the   Ohio 
River.  —  Cutting  through  the  Ice.  —  The  Boat  frozen  in.  — 
A  trying  Predicament.  —  Conversation  with  the  old  Pilot.  — 
The  lunatic  Sisters.  —  Unexpected  Escorts.  —  Female  Influ 
ence  over  a  Backwoodsman.  —  Journey  in  an   Ox   Cart.  — 
Arrival  at  Evansville.  —  Courtesy  of  a  Baltimorean.  —  Indi 
ana  Roads.  —  White  River. — Crossing  the  partially  frozen 
River  on  Foot,  by  Starlight.  —  Vincennes.  —  Midnight  Trav 
elling  on  Foot  through  the  Snow.  —  Major  R 's  Joke.  — 

Terrc  Haute.  —  A  Stage  selected  through  Presentiment.  — 


CONTENTS.  11 


Overturn  of  the  other  Stage.  —  Serious  Accidents.  —  An 
aged  Couple  thrown  over  a  Precipice.  —  The  little  Child. — 
Dayton.  —  Xenia.  —  Cleveland.  —  Alliance.  —  Salem.  —  Pal 
estine.  —  Proverbial  American  Gallantry.  —  Pittsburg.  — 
Christmas  Day.  —  A  Christmas  Fast. — "Alleghany  Moun 
tains. —  Descending  inclined  Planes.  —  Outskirts  of  Phil 
adelphia.  —  Snowbound.  —  The  Sisters.  —  A  joyful  Meet 
ing,  385 

CHAPTER    XXV. 

Retrospection.  — The  New  Year's  Fete  in  Philadelphia.  —  Gul- 
zara,  or  the  Persian  Slave. — Its  first  Production  at  Melrose, 
and  the  present  Representation.  —  My  Father.  —  The  acting 

of  five  Sisters.  —  Changes.  —  Dr.  M ITs  critical  Opinion  of 

Gulzara's  amateur  Representative.  —  Richmond.  —  Snow 
bound  again.  —  A  Repetition  of  Western  Experiences. — Bal 
timore.  —  Providence.  —  Boston.  —  Long  Engagement.  — 
Attack  of  Bronchitis.  —  Excursion  on  Horseback. — A  seri 
ous  Accident. — Attending  Circumstances.  —  Untimely  tele 
graphic  Despatches. —  Illness.  —  Letter  from  the  Mayor  and 
various  distinguished  Citizens.  —  Complimentary  Benefit. — 
The  Welcome.  —  Irrepressible  Emotion.  —  Parthenia.  — 
Wreath  of  natural  Flowers  woven  on  the  Stage.  —  Reengage- 
ment  in  Boston,  Cincinnati,  and  Louisville.  —  Funeral  of 
Henry  Clay.  —  Emblematical  funeral  Decorations.  —  Opening 
of  the  Metropolitan  Theatre  in  Buffalo.  —  Inaugural  Address. 

—  An  Architect's  Attack  of  Stage  Fright. — The  Prevalence 
of  Bronchitis  amongst  Actors  ludicrously  exhibited  at  Re 
hearsal.  —  Broadway  Theatre.  —  A  painful  Engagement.  — 
Baltimore.  —  Presentation  of  a  Fawn. — A  Star  of  Flowers. 

—  Return    to   Boston.  —  Southern    Tour.  —  Washington. — 
Richmond.  —  Mobile.  —  New  Orleans.  —  Production  of  Fash 
ion  in  New  Orleans.  —  111  Effects  of  the  Climate,      ....  400 

CHAPTER   XXVI. 

Departure  from  New  Orleans.  —  Memphis.  —  The  Promise  to 
Henry  Clay  fulfilled.  —  First  Appearance.'— Actors'  habitual 
Disregard  of  physical  Ailments.  —  Instance  in  London. — 
Anecdote  of  Mrs".  Glover's  last  Night.  —  My  second  Appear 
ance  in  Memphis.  —  Struggle  with  Indisposition.  —  Unavoid 
able  Interruption  of  Play.  —  Malaria.  —  Journey  eastward. 

—  Acting  for  Mrs.  Warner's  complimentary  Benefit.  —  Sum 
mer  Intentions  frustrated.  —  Serious  and  protracted  Illness. 

—  Removal   to    Ravenswood.  —  My  Father's    House.  —  The 

distinguished  Dr.   M tt.  —  Life's  Movement  in    a    sick 

Chamber.  —  Summer.  —  Autumn.  —  Winter's    Approach.  — 
The    Pine    Trees.  —  Sunsets.  —  Musings.  —  Cheerful   Visit 
ants  to  the  little  Chamber. — A  Child's  Tribute  to  a  Father. 

—  Anticipated  Recovery.  —  Proposed  Farewell  of  the  Stage. 
— Answer  to  a  Question  often  asked.  —  Aristocratic  Affecta 
tion  amongst  the  Profession.  —  Passion  for  the  Stage.  —  A 
few  Words  of  Warning  to  the  young  Aspirant  for  dramatic 
Honors, 417 


12  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

My  Claims  to  offer  a  Defence  of  the  Stage.  —  Lord  Bacon  on 
the  Drama.  —  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  —  D 'Israeli.  —  The  rude 
Attempts  of  Thespis.  —  JEschylus.  —  Existence  of  Theatres 
at  the  Time  of  the  first  Christian  Era.  —  The  Apostles.  —St. 
Paul's  Quotations  from  three  dramatic  Poets.  —  The  Parables 
and  the  Drama.  —  Dr.  Isaac  Watts.  —  The  Emperor  Marcus 
Aurelius  upon  the  Stage.  —  Martin  Luther.  —  The  Rev.  Dr. 
Knox.  —  Philip  Melancthon.  —  Lord  Bacon.  —  Dr.  Blair.  — 
Sir  Philip  Sidney.  —  Dr.  Gregory.  —Sir  Walter  Scott.  —  Cal- 
craft.  —  Art.  —  Use  and  Abuse.  —  With  whom  it  lies  to 
reform  the  Errors  of  the  Stage.  —  Two  Hundred  clerical  dra 
matic  Authors.  —  Dramas  of  the  Archbishop  Gregory  Nazian- 
zen  ;  of  Apollinaris,  Bishop  of  Laodicea.  —  Sir  Thomas  More. 

—  Tragedies  of  Milton,  of  Dr.  Edward  Young,  of  Rev.  H. 
Milman,  Rev.  Dr.  Croly,  Addison,  Dr.  Johnson,  Coleridge, 
Thomson,   Goldsmith,  Miss    Hannah    More,    Miss    Joanna 
Baillie,  Miss  Mitford.  —  The  Stage  :    Pope's  Exposition  of 
its  Use ;  Crabbe's  ditto  ;  Shakspeare's.  —  My  own  Experience. 

—  The  true  Position  of  Actors.  —  Their  Rank  in  ancient 
Times.  —  The  high  social  Position  held  by  many  Actors  in 
the  present  Time.  —  A  Word  of   Farewell  to  the  Members 

of  the  Profession.  —  These  Memoirs, 428 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

My  Father.  —  Miranda,  Expedition.  —  My  Mother.  —  Early  Recollec 
tions. — La  Castagne. — Description  of  La  Castagne  by  my 
Brother  Charles.  —  Jour  de  Vendange — St.  Foy.  —  Funeral 
Solemnities  of  our  Pets.  —  Les  Compliments  on  the  Anniversary  of 
our  Parents'1  Birthdays.  — A  first  Effort.  —  Othello  in  French.— 
My  Debut.  —  Bourdeaux.  —  Embarking  for  Neio  York.  —  Sea  Voy 
age.  —  Shipicreck.  —  Loss  of  a  Brother.  —  Description  by  my  Broth 
er  Charles  of  Storm  and  Wreck.  —  Return  to  Havre.  — Second 
Sailing,  and  Arrival  in  Neio  York.  —  School  Days.  —  Passion  for 
Poetry.  —  Juvenile  Doggerel.  —  First  Words  of  Praise.  —  Board 
ing  School.  —  Dramatic  Representations  at  Home.  —  Performance 

ofAlzire.  —  Early  Prejudices  against  Theatres.  —  Bishop  E n. 

—  Fanny  Kemble.  —  First  Visit  to  the  Park  Theatre.  —  Impres 
sions.  —  The  Misses  Wheatley. 

MY  father,  Samuel  G-.  Ogden,  of  New  York,  was  the 
son  of  an  Episcopal  clergyman.  For  a  number  of 
years  my  father's  name  was  prominent  in  the  communi 
ty  as  that  of  a  successful  merchant.  He  was  the  capi 
talist  in  the  celebrated  Miranda  expedition,  which  was 
designed  to  liberate  South  America.  This  expedition 
owed  its  failure  to  the  treachery  and  ambition  of  Aaron 
Burr,  who,  finding  his  own  views  interfered  with,  be 
trayed  his  friend  Colonel  Smith,  and  informed  the  Spanish 
minister  at  Philadelphia  of  the  purposes  of  the  expedi 
tion.  The  minister  sent  to  the  Spanish  main  a  Balti- 

13 


14  AUTOBIOGRAPSV'OF   AN    ACTRESS. 

more  clipper,  which  gave  warning  to  the  authorities. 
Two  Spanish  brigs -of- war  were  despatched  to  intercept 
the  expedition.  An  action  took  place  between  these 
brigs  and  the  ship  Leander,  belonging  to  my  father,  and 
two  schooners.  The  schooners  were  captured,  a  portion 
of  the  men  hung,  and  the  rest  imprisoned.  Gen.  Mi 
randa,  who  was  on  board  of  the  Leander,  beat  off  the 
two  brigs  of  war  —  went  to  Trinidad,  got  reenforce- 
ments,  and  with  four  hundred  men  took  possession  of 
the  town  of  Coro,  on  the  Spanish  coast.  He  remained 
there  ten  or  twelve  days,  and  only  retreated  because  he 
found  the  inhabitants  not  prepared  to  join  him.  Colonel 
Smith  (the  son-in-law  of  President  Adams)  and  my 
father  were  prosecuted  for  having  fitted  out  an  expedi 
tion  against  a  power  in  amity  with  the  United  States. 
The  trial  was  a  highly  interesting  one.  Thomas  Addis 
Emmet,  Cadwallader  D.  Golden,  Josiah  Ogden  Hoff 
man,  and  Richard  Harrison  were  their  counsel.  The 
defendants  were  honorably  acquitted.  Although  this 
expedition  failed,  it  was  the  first  blow  struck  for  liberty, 
and  led  to  the  subsequent  independence  of  South  Amer 
ica.  Bolivar  himself  made  this  declaration,  and  ex 
pressed  a  readiness  to  compensate  my  father  for  his 
heavy  losses. 

My  mother,  Eliza  Ogden,  was  the  daughter  of  Fran 
cis  Lewis,  and  the  granddaughter  of  that  Francis  Lewis 
whose  signature  is  affixed  to  the  Declaration  of  Independ 
ence. 

My  earliest  recollections  are  of  a  beautiful  old  coun 
try  seat,  called  La  Castagne,  and  situated  two  miles 
from  Bourdeaux,  in  France.  My  parents  were  residing 
in  Bourdeaux  at  the  time  of  my  birth,  but  removed  to 
La  Castagne  when  I  was  only  a  few  months  old.  My 


LA    CASTAGNE.  15 

father's  commercial  transactions  caused  him  to  pass  some 
eleven  years  abroad.  During  this  period  four  daugh 
ters  were  born,  of  whom  I  was  the  second. 

I  have  dim  but  most  delightful  remembrances  of  La 
Castagne,  which  come  to  me  like  half-forgotten  dreams. 
I  remember  a  magnificent  terrace,  where  we  children 
used  to  frolic — a  beautiful  walk,  called  "Allee  d' Amour," 
lined  with  tall  trees,  whose  branches  met  and  formed  a 
bower  over  the  head  —  a  large  pond,  surrounded  with 
statues,  and  filled  with  fishes,  which  it  was  our  daily  de 
light  to  feed  —  a  gayly-painted  pleasure  boat,  always 
floating  on  the  pond  —  a  grotto,  called  "  Calypso's  Grot 
to"  —  a  miniature  waterfall,  our  great  wonder  and  ad 
miration  —  the  whole  place  a  very  Eden  of  fruits  and 
flowers. 

The  following  description  of  La  Castagne  is  furnished 
me  by  my  brother  Charles,  to  aid  my  imperfect  recol 
lections  of  the  beautiful  spot  that  we  first  called  "  home." 

"  Though  so  many  years  have  passed  since  we  dwelt 
there,  I  find  no  difficulty  in  picturing  to  the  mind  every 
scene  of  La  Castagne,  that  delightful  residence  of  our 
earlier  years,  where  life  was  one  joyous  holiday.  I  only 
fear  I  may  fail  in  the  description  you  request  of  me. 

"La  Castagne  is  situated  in  the  parish  of  Begles, 
about  two  miles  from  the  gates  of  Bourdeaux.  Its  name 
was  derived  from  a  row  of  large  horse-chestnut  trees, 
which  are  thus  called  in  patois,  and  which  spread  along 
the  little  stream  that  formed  the  boundary  of  one  of  the 
sides  of  this  elegant  country  seat.  The  whole  property 
extended  over  about  thirty  acres,  situated  on  a  sloping 
ground,  at  the  foot  of  which  ran  a  beautiful  rivulet, 
that  separated  it  from  the  adjoining  residence ;  all  the 
rest  was  enclosed  by  a  high  stone  wall  of  eight  feet. 


16       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

"  The  dwelling,  or  chateau,  which  contained  twenty-two 
rooms,  and  was  built  of  stone  and  brick,  was  on  the 
highest  part  of  the  ground,  and  overlooked  a  pleasant 
landscape  ;  in  front  was  a  beautiful  jardin  Anglais,  of 
considerable  extent,  and  comprising  every  variety  of  rare 
floral  productions  —  the  magnificent  tulips  especially 
are  still  fresh  in  my  mind.  In  the  centre  of  this  was 
*  a  bovver  of  lovely  form/  which  was  the  frequent  even 
ing  resort  of  our  assembled  family ;  and  running  the 
whole  length  of  the  chateau  and  flower  garden  were 
several  rows  of  shady  platanes,  or  plane  trees,  whose 
smooth  bark  had  been  often  disfigured  by  the  carved 
ditties  of  loving  swains.  The  whole  formed  a  level  ter 
race  of  about  four  acres  ;  and  a  stone  abutment  encircled 
one  side  of  it,  which  was  elevated  twenty  feet  from  the 
gardens  below.  In  the  rear  of  the  main  dwelling  was 
an  extensive  lawn,  around  which  were  situated  the  out 
houses,  also  of  stone,  and  comprising  first  the  dwellings 
of  our  peasants,  then  the  wine  buildings,  stables,  and 
granaries,  which  formed  two  sides ;  and  on  the  third 
side  were  extensive  accommodations  for  poultry,  whose 
dwelling,  surmounted  by  a  fanciful  pigeon  house,  was  in 
a  yard  furnished  with  cherry  trees  for  their  especial 
benefit.  There  were  also  an  aviary  and  apartments 
for  rabbits,  guinea  pigs,  and  other  small  quadrupeds. 
Extending  from  the  rear  of  these  buildings  were  eleven 
acres  of  vineyard,  from  which  were  made  annually 
about  thirty  casks  of  wine  ;  then,  by  the  side  of  the  avia 
ry,  but  below  the  terrace,  was  an  extensive  orchard,  which 
furnished  in  abundance  every  variety  of  delicious  fruits 
of  that  sunny  clime.  Immediately  adjoining  was  a 
large  vegetable  garden  ;  and  the  whole  remainder  of  the 
lands  consisted  of  parks,  fields,  and  meadows,  enclosed 


LA    CASTAGNE.  17 

by  beautiful  alleys  cultivated  with  great  care.  One  of 
these,  the  *  Alice  Antoinette,'  was  particularly  curious ; 
the  trees,  regular  on  each  side,  and  uniting  in  an  arch, 
were  trimmed  so  artistically  that  scarcely  a  leaf  ven 
tured  to  grow  beyond  its  limited  barrier.  Here  no  ray 
of  sun  could  penetrate  on  the  warmest  day.  And  then 
there  was  the  'Alice  d' Amour,'  another  romantic  walk, 
besides  a  number  of  others,  partaking  of  the  same 
peculiarity,  and  affording  shade  in  almost  every  direc 
tion.  At  the  foot  of  the  slope  were  a  cluster  of  trees, 
and  a  '  bosquet '  of  wilder  character  than  the  rest,  and 
this  was  called  *  Calypso's  Grotto.'  In  the  centre,  cov 
ered  with  green  moss,  were  seats,  one  more  elevated 
than  the  others.  In  the  quiet  of  this  secluded  spot  — '• 
no  sound  to  break  its  sylvan  solitude  but  the  warbling 
of  wild  birds,  who  in  happy  security  had  chosen  this  fa 
vorite  home,  and  the  constant  murmur  of  a  cascade  in 
the  rivulet  I  have  already  mentioned,  which  flowed  be 
neath  the  grotto  —  one  could  almost  fancy  that  Calypso 
with  her  nymphs  had  indeed  dwelt  there,  and  there  sat 
listening  to  the  grave  Mentor,  whilst  her  eyes  were 
beaming  with  love  for  the  youthful  Telemachus. 

"  But  I  must  not  forget  one  of  the  chief  beauties  of  La 
Castagne,  its  whole  length  being  traversed  by  a  water 
course,  originating  in  a  clear  and  beautiful  spring,  cov 
ered  over  with  an  arched  dome  of  masonry ;  a  lovely 
place  that  Narcissus  might  have  made  his  constant  re 
sort,  surrounded  as  it  was  with  beautiful  lilies,  which, 
reflected  in  the  limpid  fountain,  seemed  to  remind  one 
that  the  melancholy  youth  had  in  truth  been  there,  and 
there  pined  away.  The  water  thence  flowed  through  a 
stone  canal  to  a  circular  pond  of  considerable  depth. 
This  place,  called  the  *  lavoir/  was  devoted  to  useful  pur- 


18       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

poses,  and  was  the  particular  resort  of  ducks  and  wash 
erwomen.  Thence  a  canal  led  across  the  gardens  to  the 
opposite  extremity  of  the  grounds,  where  it  emptied 
into  another  and  more  extensive  pond,  forming  a  sheet 
of  water  of  about  four  hundred  yards  in  length,  and  one 
third  the  breadth.  But  this  was  devoted  exclusively  to 
pleasure.  Its  banks  were  supported  by  stone  work,  and 
ornamented  with  statuary  of  much  taste.  A  sailing  boat 
was  ever  ready  for  water  excursions  ;  and  several  weep 
ing  willows  afforded  a  pleasant  shade  for  the  angler.  It 
abounded  in  various  species  of  fish,  particularly  the  carp. 
Running  through  a  diminutive  forest,  the  water  thence 
emptied  into  the  rivulet  spoken  of  before. 

"  During  our  residence  at  La  Castagne  there  was  but 
one  winter  cold  enough  to  form  ice  in  the  pond :  this 
once  it  lasted  several  days,  and  afforded  good  skating  — 
a  recreation  quite  novel  to  the  denizens  of  Bourdeaux. 
La  Castagne  became  then  the  resort  of  most  of  the 
English  and  American  residents  of  the  city,  and  the 
pond  presented  a  scene  of  liveliness  and  fashion  seldom 
equalled.  There  were  good  skaters  even  among  the 
ladies ;  and  our  southern  neighbors  of  Begles  were  par 
ticularly  charmed  with  this  rare  sport. 

"I  will  not  undertake  to  describe  the  many  joyous 
scenes  of  our  country  life,  such  as  the  harvesting,  the 
May  day  and  birthday  festivals,  or  our  Christmas 
frolics ;  but  one  of  these  annual  customs  deserves  a 
passing  notice,  and  that  is  the  'vendanges/  or  wine- 
making.  It  was  usual  in  the  month  of  September,  ac 
cording  to  the  maturity  of  the  grapes,  to  fix  a  day  when 
our  neighbors  were  all  informed  that  our  ( vendanges ' 
would  commence.  When  this  day  arrived,  the  peasants 
of  all  neighboring  country  seats  flocked  to  La  Castagne, 


JOUR    DE   VEXDAXGE.  19 

• 

and  all  were  diligently  employed  in  the  business  of  wine 
making.  The  women  and  a  portion  of  the  men  sallied 
forth  merrily  into  the  vineyards  with  their  baskets,  and 
carefully  gathered  the  grapes.  As  each  basket  was  filled, 
it  was  brought  in  on  their  heads,  balanced  as  only  these 
peasants  can  balance  their  burden ;  and  there  was  an 
actual  emulation  as  to  which  could  most  frequently  re 
turn  with  his  or  her  basket  filled.  Another  portion  of  the 
men  would  be  occupied  in  pressing,  or  rather  trampling 
the  grapes.  Barefooted,  and  their  trousers  rolled  up, 
they  danced  about  in  a  large  reservoir,  which  was  the 
receptacle  of  the  contents  of  each  basket  as  it  succes 
sively  arrived  ;  and  the  gleeful  song  kept  time  with  the 
wine-stained  legs,  as  the  juice  of  the  grape  flowed 
beneath  the  tuneful  tramp.  Often  have  I  joined  this 
merry  party,  and,  barefooted,  helped  to  express  the  wine. 
The  advantage  of  usin^  feet  is,  that  they  yield  to  the 
stem  and  seeds,  and  the  grape  only  is  crushed,  without 
their  bitterness  mixing  with  the  pure  juice.  From  this 
reservoir  the  wine  is  constantly  carried  into  large  cuves, 
where  it  undergoes  fermentation,  and  is  in  time  further 
prepared  for  the  table.  This  gay  scene  with  us  usually 
occupied  three  days,  and  all  who  came  to  assist  were 
entertained  with  a  plentiful  collation,  served  on  long 
tables  on  the  green  lawn,  where  the  day  was  closed  with 
the  happy  peasants'  dance,  the  fiddler  being  a  regular 
attendant  at  each  ( vendange.'  As  the  neighboring  es 
tates  each  had  in  turn  their  festival,  our  peasants  went 
to  assist  them,  and  were  treated  with  the  same  joyful 
cheer  till  the  round  was  completed. 

"  Next  to  La  Castagne,  some  of  our  pleasantest  remi 
niscences  are  of  St.  Foy,  a  small  fortified  town,  encircled 
by  a  high  wall,  with  its  ancient  cathedral,  and  its  anti- 


20        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

quated  college,  and  situated  on  the  rqmantic  banks  of 
the  limpid  Dordogne." 

We  had  numerous  pets  at  La  Castagne,  and  those 
I  can'  well  remember.  The  ones  most  prized  by  me 
chanced  not  to  be  of  a  very  poetical  class  —  no  other 
than  certain  young  families  of  guinea  pigs,  whose  num 
ber  had  an  indefinite  increase.  Fortunately  there  were 
deaths  now  and  then  amongst  them ;  and  I  have  a  very 
distinct  recollection  of  the  funeral  obsequies  paid  to  these 
beloved  favorites.  We  were  then  five  brothers  and 
seven  sisters.  We  used  to  form  ourselves  into  a  proces 
sion  of  mourners.  Two  of  the  boys  carried  on  their 
shoulders  a  rude  box  for  a  coffin,  containing  the  dead 
body  of  the  favorite  covered  with  a  white  pall,  over 
which  were  strewed  fresh  flowers.  The  procession  was 
headed  by  our  third  brother,  Charles,  who  carried  a 
huge  bell,  which  he  tolled  with  considerable  violence  as 
the  procession  moved  on.  At  the  grave  the  box  was 
placed  in  the  earth,  and  the  bell  toller,  who  was  quite 
celebrated  amongst  us  for  his  powers  of  oratory,  deliv 
ered  a  flowery  and  moving  address,  to  which  we  lis 
tened  with  profound  attention,  making  all  due  efforts  to 
shed  tears  at  the  proper  places.  The  earth  was  then 
shovelled  in,  and  we  all  ran  off  to  play,  or  perhaps  to 
look  forward  with  some  excitement  to  the  decease  of  the 
next  favorite. 

We  had  one  custom  among  us  —  I  presume  of 
French  origin  —  which  has  also  left  a  deep  impression. 
On  the  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  our  parents,  we  all 
assembled  early  in  the  morning  to  await  their  entrance 
into  the  breakfast  room.  Every  child  had  some  little 
cadeau  to  offer.  The  elder  ones  generally  presented 
scrolls  containing  verses,  —  sometimes  copied,  sometimes 


DRAMATIC    REPRESENTATIONS    AT   HOME.  21 

* 

original,  —  and  the  younger  ones  bouquets  of  violets. 
The  verses  were  inscribed  on  large  sheets  of  paper, 
surrounded  by  drawings  of  wreaths  of  flowers  and  other 
devices,  and  were  styled  "  les  compliments."  When  our 
parents  appeared,  we  went  up  to  them  in  turn,  according 
to  our  ages,  proudly  offering  our  "  compliments"  and 
receiving  kisses  and  words  of  encouragement  in  return 
—  praises  vrhich  made  that  day  a  jubilee.  I  remember, 
when  I  could  not  have  been  more  than  five  years  old, 
growing  very  weary  in  the  effort  to  copy  verses  in  a 
large,  round  hand,  to  be  presented  on  one  of  these  birth 
day  anniversaries.  After  a  deal  of  blotting  and  scratch 
ing,  and  beginning  anew,  they  were  finished  at  last.  I 
can  see  them  now  as  they  lay  before  me,  written  on  a 
huge  sheet,  nicely  rolled  up  and  tied  with  gay  ribbons, 
ready  to  be  offered.  Baby,  almost,  as  I  was,  I  expe 
rienced  a  sensation  of  pride  and  delight  which  has  not 
often  been  surpassed  in  after  years. 

The  performance  of  private  plays  seems  to  have  been 
the  favorite  amusement  of  my  elder  sisters  aud  brothers. 
I  can  only  remember  one  of  these  occasions  —  the  one 
on  which  I  made  my  own  debut.  The  play  represented 
was  Othello,  translated  into  French.  My  eldest  sister 
enacted  Desdemona ;  my  eldest  brother  Othello ;  the 
second  sister  Emilia ;  the  second  brother  Cassio,  dou 
bling  the  part  with  that  of  the  uncle ;  the  third  brother 
lago,  doubling  the  part  with  that  of  the  judge.  The 
other  brothers  and  sisters  filled  the  remaining  characters. 
In  the  French  version,  however,  the  dramatis  persona 
are  not  the  same  as  in  the  Othello  of  Shakspeare.  The 
variations  from  the  original  text  are,  in  some  instances, 
of  the  most  comical  nature. 

A  difficulty  occurred  about  the  judges  in  the  trial 


22       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

i 

scene.  Our  dramatic  corps  proved  insufficient  to  furnish 
judges.  To  supply  this  vacancy,  the  four  younger  chil 
dren  were  summoned,  dressed  in  red  gowns  and  white 
wigs/ made  to  sit  on  high  benches,  and  instructed  to  pay 
great  attention,  and  not  to  laugh.  Of  these  children  I 
was  the  youngest ;  and  at  five  years  old,  in  the  sedate 
and  solemn  character  of  a  judge,  upon  a  mimic  stage, 
I  made  my  first  appearance  in  that  profession  of  which 
it  was  the  permission  of  divine  Providence  that  I  should 
one  day  in  reality  become  a  member. 

The  festivities  of  that  night  were  in  honor  of  my 
father's  birthday.  The  evening  commenced  with  the 
christening  of  the  youngest  child.  The  play  succeeded, 
and  a  ball  closed  the  night,  or  rather  ushered  in  the 
morning.  On  the  same  night  a  similar  version  of 
Othello  was  enacted  at  the  Theatre  Royal  by  Lafont 
the  successor  of  the  great  Talma.  One  of  our  friends 
attended  both  representations.  The  lago  of  our  troupe 
confidently  asked  this  gentleman  whether  the  perform 
ance  at  the  Theatre  Royal  at  all  approached  our  home 
delineations.  The  exact  answer  returned  is  not  on 
record;  but  the  ambitious  young  questioner  presumed 
that  there  could  be  but  one  reply. 

I  cannot  recollect  the  performances  of  my  elder 
brothers  and  sisters,  but  I  have  heard  that  they  dis 
played  remarkable  dramatic  talent.  This  talent  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  inherited.  My  father  merely 
appreciated  theatrical  performances  without  having  a 
passion  for  them ;  and  my  beloved  mother  was  brought 
up  in  a  school  too  rigid  to  inspire  any  particular  love 
for  the  stage.  She  enjoyed  a  good  play  in  common  with 
other  persons  of  cultivation  and  taste ;  but  never  joined 
in  any  private  performance,  nor  appeared  very  fre- 


EMBARKING-   FOR   AMERICA.  23 

quently  at  a  public.  I  have  often  tried  to  discover  the 
source  whence  sprang  the  power  of  representation 
which  seems  to  run  through  one  Kranch  of  the  family, 
but  without  success ;  nor  can  my  father  throw  any  light 
upon  the  subject. 

Before  leaving  France,  the  family  removed  to  Bour- 
deaux.  But  I  can  scarcely  call  to  mind  that  city.  I 
only  remember  the  public  gardens  where  we  used  to 
play;  the  deep,  grass-covered  hollow  in  their  centre, 
called  le  bassin,  around  which  we  daily  danced,  in  a  ring, 
with  a  host  of  little  Frencli  children ;  and  I  recollect 
some  of  our  merry  French  games,  but  nothing  else. 

I  was  in  my  seventh  year  when  we  embarked  from 
Bourdeaux  for  New  York  in  the  ship  Brandt.  Even  at 
this  day  I  cannot  think  of  that  dreadful  voyage  without 
a  shudder.  The  terrible  crash  with  which  we  were 
early  one  morning  waked  from  sleep  still  sounds  in  my 
ears.  The  ship  was  pitching  so  violently  that  we  chil 
dren  could  scarcely  hold  ourselves  in  our  berths.  One 
little  sister  was  thrown  out  and  bruised  against  the 
great  dinner  table.  The  water  was  pouring  down  the 
companion  way,  and  threatening  to  flood  the  whole 
cabin. 

My  brother  Charles,  at  my  earnest  request,  furnishes 
me  with  his  recollections  of  the  voyage  and  shipwreck, 
which  I  insert :  — 

"  We  left  St.  Foy  to  join  the  remainder  of  the  family 
on  our  return  to  America.  "We  sailed  from  Bourdeaux 
in  the  ship  Brandt,  captain  Steinaur ;  and  on  the  17th 
September  we  left  the  river,  and  passed  the  *  Tour  de 
Cordovan,'  at  the  month  of  the  Gironde,  a  place  we  had 
before  visited  in  some  of  our  summer  excursions  to  the 
sea  shore.  The  '  Tour  de  Cordovan '  is  built  on  a  rock 


24       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

far  out  in  the  sea,  and  for  six  months  of  the  year  is  often 
unapproachable,  on  account  of  the  boisterous  waves  that 
wash  its  base:  the  ^family  living  there,  and  who  have 
charge  of  the  revolving  light,  have  then  no  communica 
tion  with  the  external  world  for  a  length  of  time.  In 
summer  the  rock  is  dry,  and  is  often  visited.  The 
building,  which  is  of  square  stone,  was  erected  during 
the  reign  of  Henri  IV.,  and  is  four  hundred  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea :  the  lower  part  contains  apartments 
for  every  sort  of  artisanship ;  and  a  spiral  stairway  of 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  steps,  relieved  at  intervals 
by  large  Gothic  chambers,  conducts  to  the  top,  where 
one  can  examine  the  curious  mechanism  of  a  revolving 
light  of  intense  brilliancy,  that  sends  its  warning  for 
many  and  many  a  league  to  the  adventurous  mariner  in 
that  fearful  Bay  of  Biscay.  On  one  side  the  view  ex 
tends  far  over  the  fertile  valley  of  the  Gironde,  whilst 
on  the  other  it  reaches  only  the  infinite  blue  of  this 
turbulent  bay.  ' 

"  We  had  the  usual  quantity  of  storms  and  boisterous 
weather  in  making  our  way  out  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 
The  Brandt  was  a  good  ship,  though  perhaps  too  deeply 
laden.  There  was  a  large  saloon  on  the  after  deck, 
where  all  our  meals  were  served,  and  which  was  our 
social  hall.  Our  family  on  board  consisted  of  our 
parents,  seven  sisters,  (one  of  whom  was  married,)  and 
three  brothers.  There  were,  besides  these,  other  pas 
sengers. 

"  On  the  afternoon  of  the  30th  September,  being  then 
nearly  off  the  Western  Islands,  we  experienced  a  tre 
mendous  gale  from  the  north-west.  That  evening  we 
were  all  assembled  in  the  saloon  for  the  last  time.  All 
night  the  storm  continued  with  increasing  violence.  On 


SHIPWRECK.  25 

the  1st  of  October,  our  two  younger  brothers,  (one  ten, 
the  other  twelve  years  of  age,)  who  slept  in  the  state 
room  with  me,  having,  like  all  on  board,  spent  a  restless 
night,  rose  at  dawn  of  day,  and  went  on  deck.  The 
officer  on  duty  bade  them  not  remain  there ;  and  they 
went  into  the  saloon,  where  it  was  thought  there  was  at 
least  safety. 

u  At  about  half  past  six  there  was  a  terrible,  deafening 
crash  ;  the  sound  of  which,  breaking  upon  drowsy  ears, 
still  reverberates  in  my  mind.  The  vessel  had  been 
struck  on  the  larboard  bow  by  a  tremendous  wave, 
which,  crossing  her  from  stem  to  stern,  rent  up  every 
thing,  and  completely  swept  our  decks,  whilst  it  threw 
the  ship  with  her  beam  ends  in  the  sea.  The  caboose, 
longboat,  and  water  casks,  cables,  and  every  thing  amid 
ships,  her  bulwarks,  and  every  particle  of  the  saloon, 
were  violently  shattered  and  washed  away,  and  the  deck 
around  the  companion  way  and  forecastle  hatch  com 
pletely  torn  up,  making  the  whole  ship  a  wreck  indeed. 
The  masts  alone  were  uninjured.  Fortunately  she  soon 
righted.* 

"  My  first  thought  was,  of  course,  for  my  brothers, 
knowing  that  they  had  gone  on  deck  ;  and  as  soon  as 
possible,  I  rushed,  hah0  clad,  up  the  companion  way. 
Here  a  scene  of  desolation  presented  itself  that  I  should 
in  vain  attempt  to  describe.  The  naked  decks,  with 
nothing  but  the  masts  standing,  the  rigging  flying  in 


*  "  To  give  some  idea  of  how  completely  the  vessel  was  thrown 
down,  I  will  mention  that  a  stack  of  hay  that  was  on  deck  was 
found,  when  the  ship  righted,  in  the  main  yard,  having  been  picked 
up  out  of  the  sea ;  and  another  circumstance :  one  of  our  sisters, 
•who  slept  in  a  square  state  room  on  the  windward  side,  was  thrown 
from  her  berth  into  that  of  the  sister  opposite,  and  without  injury." 


26       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

every  direction,  the  bulwarks  destroyed,  and  presenting 
no  barrier  to  the  sea,  which,  with  every  roll  of  the 
vessel,  washed  over  the  deck  and  down  into  the  cabin ; 
then  tlie  waves,  mountain  high,  and  foaming  with  fury, 
that  seemed  every  moment  to  threaten  destruction; 
whilst  the  gusty  blasts,  howling  through  the  rigging, 
were  a  fit  dirge  for  the  impending  fate. 

"  I  could  not  reach  the  deck.  Struck  with  awe  and 
wonder,  I  looked  around  for  some  living  being  to  tell 
me  of  my  brothers.  Too  soon,  alas  !  the  sa'd  tale  was 
revealed.  A  sturdy  seaman,  (our  second  mate,)  whose 
honest  heart  had  made  him  a  favorite  with  us,  was  seen 
cramped  to  the  rigging,  about  midships,  and  drawing 
something  out  of  the  sea.  Presently  our  youngest 
brother  appeared,  and  as  the  mate  reached  me,  and 
placed  his  almost  inanimate  form  in  my  arms,  he  pointed 
astern,  and  said,  i  The  other  is  lost ! '  I  looked,  and  on 
a  crested  billow,  fast  receding,  and  already  far  from  us, 
I  caught  a  momentary  glimpse  —  the  last  of  poor  Ga 
briel  !  I  subsequently  learned  from  the  mate,  that,  when 
the  vessel  first  righted,  he  saw  Gabriel  in  the  sea,  having 
hold  of  a  fragment  of  the  jollyboat.  He  seized  a  rope 
and  threw  it  to  him.  The  boy  let  go  his  boat,  and  swam 
to  the  rope ;  but  it  sank  before  he  could  catch  it.  He 
then  turned  to  his  boat  again,  and  was  beyond  the 
reach  of  assistance  before  any  could  be  rendered.  The 
mate  then  saw  the  youngest  brother,  also  overboard,  and 
clinging  to  the  main  sheet,  which  was  hanging  over 
the  side,  every  roll  of  the  vessel  taking  him  under 
water.  His  effort  to  save  him  was  successful,  though  to 
loosen  his  hold  he  had  much  difficulty. 

"  Besides  these,  five  men  were  washed  overboard,  but 
were  all  providentially  saved  by  the  effects  of  a  counter 


SHIPWRECK.  27 

wave,  and  but  two  seriously  injured ;  one  had  broken 
his  leg. 

"  A  sad  duty  had  now  devolved  upon  me,  as  I  ap 
peared  below  with  the  half-drowned  boy  in  my  arms, 
and  met  the  affrighted  members  of  the  family,  who  by 
this  time  had  collected  in  the  main  cabin.  To  their 
anxious  inquiries,  and  to  those  of  a  distressed  mother,  it 
was  my  painful  task  to  repeat  the  awful  words  of  the 
brave  sailor,  '  The  other  is  lost ! '  I  cannot  depict  the 
anguish  of  that  moment :  though  our  cabin  was  deluged 
with  water,  and  threatening  danger  seemed  each  instant 
about  to  hurry  us  all  into  eternity,  one  loud  lamentation 
for  him,  who  perhaps  had  only  for  a  brief  period  *  gone 
before,'  escaped  every  bosom,  and  sorrow  absorbed  the 
sense  of  peril.  But  all  thoughts  now  turned  to  the  fond 
mother,  whose  agonized  heart  more  keenly  than  any 
other  felt  this  poignant  loss. 

'  Her  big  swol'n  grief  surpassed 
The  power  of  utterance ;  she  stood  aghast ; 
Nor  had  she  speech,  nor  tears  to  give  relief ; 
Excess  of  woe  suppressed  the  rising  grief.' 

"  Throughout  the  day  the  storm  continued  with  un 
abated  fury.  Our  disabled  vessel  lay  to,  the  sport  of 
every  wave.  For  a  while  we  scudded.  As  night  set  in, 
she  was  again  struck  by  an  immense  sea,  which,  taking 
her  in  the  stern,  stove  in  our  dead  lights,  and  deluged 
the  cabin  again;  whilst  on  deck  it  severely  injured 
several  persons,  almost  killing  the  helmsman,  beside 
breaking  the  wheel.  The  ship  was  again  hove  to ;  and 
through  that  long  night,  and  part  of  the  next  day,  each 
hour  appearing  more  fearful  than  the  last,  wind  and 
wave  seemed  to  contend  with  undiminished  violence  as 


28       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

to  which  should  strike  the  fatal  blow  that  would  end  our 
struggles  and  completely  demolish  our  already  unsafe 
vessel. 

"At- length,  after  forty-eight  hours'  continuance,  the 
storm  abated.  Once  more  a  bright  sun  appeared,  and 
hope  smiled  upon  us  through  its  cheering  rays.  Some 
time  was  spent  in  such  repairs  as  could  be  made,  and  it 
was  decided,  the  wind  being  westerly,  that  we  should 
put  back  for  the  nearest  port  in  Europe.  All  our  live 
stock  and  fresh  provisions  being  washed  away  with  the 
entire  supply  of  cooking  utensils,  it  was  fortunate  that, 
among  the  private  stores  in  the  cabin,  we  had  a  quantity 
of  French  conserves,  pdtes  de  perigord,  de  foie  gras,  and 
so  forth ;  but  these  luxuries  became  exceedingly  distaste 
ful  when  they  constituted  our  chief  food  for  several 
days.  On  the  fifth  day  we  encountered  a  craft  that 
supplied  us  with  some  bread  and  a  barrel  of  potatoes, 
as  well  as  an  iron  kettle.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  de 
lightful  relish  that  those  potatoes  proved  to  have  after 
we  had  remained  so  long  without  the  means  of  cooking 
any  thing. 

"  The  wind  being  favorable  as  we  entered  the  British 
Channel,  we  continued  our  course,  and  reached  Havre 
on  the  9th  October.  The  Brandt  was  reported  at 
Havre,  and  the  anxious  surprise  of  our  elder  brother, 
who  was  residing  there,  soon  brought  him  on  board. 
The  meeting  with  an  afflicted  mother  opened  afresh  her 
lacerated  heart.  No  word  was  spoken  ;  our  dismantled 
ship  and  the  one  missing  form  too  plainly  told  the 
sad  tale. 

"  The  Brandt  was  necessarily  abandoned,  and  on  the 
15th  October  we  sailed  for  New  York  in  the  packet  ship 
;  Queen  Mab.'  We  had  a  long  passage  of  forty  days, 


LOSS    OF   A    SAILOR.  29 

with  much  boisterous  weather ;  but  nothing  worthy  of 
particular  note  occurred,  save  the  loss  of  one  of  our 
crew. 

"  It  was  ere  the  dawn  of  day ;  a  western  gale  had  partly 
subsided,  and  the  wind  came  only  in  gusts :  two  men 
were  ordered  to  let  out  a  reef  in  the  spanker  —  one  of 
them,  a  sailor  whose  fine  appearance  and  handsome, 
happy  countenance  had  often  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  passengers,  was  on  the  extreme  end  of  the  boom, 
when  it  was  suddenly  jerked  by  a  fitful  blast  so  vio 
lently  as  to  throw  both  men  off,  the  one  at  the  end  fall 
ing  into  the  sea.  Immediately  the  cry  ran  through  the 
ship,  '  Ah1  hands  ahoy  —  a  man  overboard  ! '  and,  ring 
ing  through  the  cabin,  sent  a  thrill  in  every  heart  that 
made  each  slumberer  leap  to  his  feet.  The  captain  was 
quickly  on  deck,  and  many  half-clad  passengers,  rushing 
from  their  berths,  followed  him. 

"  The  ship  was  hove  to  as  rapidly  as  possible,  and  the 
mate,  with  two  seamen,  jumped  into  the  stern  boat. 
There  was  no  hesitation  ;  the  word  was  given,  *  Let  go,' 
and  the  frail  bark  struck  the  sea.  It  was  a  noble  sight 
to  see  these  three  men,  perilling  their  own  lives  in  a 
rough  sea  to  try  to  save  a  fellow-creature.  They  plied 
their  oars  in  the  wake  of  the  ship,  and  soon  were  out  of 
sight. 

"  Silently  and  anxiously  we  watched  for  them  for  up 
wards  of  an  hour.  At  last,  when  morn  began  to  '  wave 
her  purple  wings,'  we  descried  the  boat  returning.  As 
soon  as  they  were  within  sound,  they  were  hailed  by 
the  captain  with  an  *A11  well  ? '  Breathlessly  we  listened 
for  a  reply ;  a  mournful  i  No  ! '  was  echoed  back ;  and 
as  the  brave  fellows  ascended  the  deck,  an  emotion  of 
sympathy  was  felt  for  their  noble  daring,  and  a  silent 


30        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

tear  moistened  the  eye  for  the  fate  of  their  former  com 
panion." 

New  York  was  in  future  to  be  our  permanent  abode. 
For  a  time  every  thing  seemed  strange  to  the  younger 
children.  We  could  understand  but  very  little  English ; 
and  American  children,  with  whom  we  could  not  con 
verse,  seemed  dull  companions  in  comparison  with  our 
merry  little  playmates  of  Les  Jardins  Publiques.  My 
thoughts  were  always  wandering  back  to  the  pleasant 
places  we  had  left,  and  I  longed  to  exchange  the  red 
brick  walls  for  green  trees  and  beautiful  gardens.  "  Shall 
we  never  return  ?  "  "  Must  we  live  here  always  ?  "  were 
questions  often  asked  with  childish  eagerness,  but  never 
satisfactorily  answered. 

v/  Then  came  school  days,  with  their  busy  round  of  joys 
and  cares — joys  less  perfect  than  those  of  after  years, 
and  cares  that  press  as  heavily  on  the  child's  unstrength- 
ened  heart  as  life  cares  on  that  of  matured  but  courage 
ous  womanhood.  So  at  least  I  thought,  and  still  think. 
Soon  after  our  arrival  in  New  York,  we  were  placed  at 
Mrs.  OkilPs  boarding  school  —  and  there  I  appeared 
for  the  second  time  on,  a  mimic  stage.  It  was  in  a  little 
French  play,  —  I  do  not  even  recollect  its  name,  — 
performed,  after  a  public  examination  of  the  scholars,  for 
the  amusement  of  the  parents  and  guardians.  My  sister 
Matilda  and  I  were  intrusted  with  important  parts,  and 
won  many  praises. 

For  a  long  period  I  did  not  entirely  recover  from  the 
consequences  of  the  sea  voyage  and  its  terrible  excite 
ments,  and  my  school  days  were  frequently  interrupted 
by  fits  of  illness.  I  was,  however,  permitted  to  read  as 
much  as  I  chose,  and  availed  myself  amply  of  the  priv 
ilege.  I  read  any  thing  and  every  thing  that  I  could 


YOUTHFUL    DOGGEREL.  31 

find.  Of  poetry  I  was  never  tired,  and  at  ten  years 
old  I  had  read  the  whole  of  Shakspeare's  plays  many 
times  over.  My  reading  was  not  guided  —  I  was 
allowed  to  take  any  book  that  I  chose,  French  or 
English,  from  my  father's  library.  When  I  look  back 
upon  some  of  the  works  which  I  perused  with  avidity 
at  that  early  age,  I  can  hardly  believe  it  possible  that  a 
child  could  have  waded  through  them,  or  culled  out 
meaning  enough  to  render  the  subjects  interesting.  I 
amused  myself  by  writing  also,  and  fancied  that  I  wrote 
poetiy,  because  I  made  the  ends  of  the  lines  rhyme. 
Every  marriage,  or  birth,  or  death,  or  exciting  circum 
stance  that  occurred  in  the  family  invariably  furnished 
me  with  a  subject.  All  my  deeper  feelings  spontane-  \/ 
ously  expressed  themselves  in  verse.  I  used  to  sit  for 
hours  stringing  doggerel  together,  and  longing  to  show  it 
to  somebody  who  would  be  sure  to  say  that  the  verses 
were  very  beautiful.  I  seldom  had  courage  to  exhibit 
these  infantile  productions,  but  laid  little  plots  to  secure 
their  being  seen.  Sometimes  I  would  leave  a  copy  of 
verses  on  the  floor  in  some  of  my  brothers'  rooms,  or  on 
the  nursery  mantelpiece,  or  write  them  on  the  walls  in 
the  garden,  which  at  one  period  were  covered  over  with 
rhymes.  I  seldom  got  praised  for  any  of  these  effusions, 
and  I  doubt  whether  they  deserved  any  praise  ;  though 
I,  at  the  time,  imagined  them  very  fine.  One  day  I 
let  fall  a  little  "  poem  " —  as  I  designated  it  —  in  the  room 
of  one  of  my  brothers,  and  soon  after  perceived  him 
coming  out  of  his  apartment  with  the  paper  in  his  hand. 
He  went  down  stairs,  and,  unperceived,  I  stole  softly 
after  him.  When  he  entered  the  drawing  room,  where 
my  father  was  sitting,  I  dropped  down  on  the  last  step, 
with  my  heart  beating  so  painfully  that  I  could  scarcely 


32        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

breathe.  I  could  hear  him  say,  "  Just  read  this,  papa ; 
it  is  some  of  Anna's  nonsense." 

I  sat  still,  too  much  agitated  to  move,  but  not  able  to 
overhear  what  passed,  until  the  words  came  to  me  in 
my  father's  voice,  "  I  wish  you  would  call  her." 

I  sprang  up  to  betake  myself  to  flight ;  but  my  brother 
had  opened  the  door  before  I  could  disappear.  I  was 
summoned.  I  entered  the  room  like  a  culprit  who  had 
been  guilty  of  some  heavier  crime  than  that  of  murder 
ing  English  and  perpetrating  bad  poetry. 

"  Did  you  write  these  lines  yourself  ?  "  inquired  my 
father,  in  his  usual  kind  tone. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  nobody  helped  you  ?  Are  you 
sure  that  you  did  not  get  them  out  of  some  book  ?  " 

I  replied,  indignantly,  that  they  were  my  own.  I  was 
beginning  to  be  elated  by  the  idea  that  probably  I  had 
produced  something  wonderful,  after  all. 

"  They  are  not  very  good  grammar,"  said  my  father ; 
"  but  they  are  quite  pretty,  for  all  that.  Who  knows 
what  my  little  chicken  may  turn  out  one  of  these  days  ?  " 
he  added,  caressing  me. 

These  were  the  first  words  of  praise  that  had  ever 
been  bestowed  upon  what  I  wrote.  I  felt  inclined  to 
cry  for  joy ;  but  my  brother  took  the  lines,  and  be 
gan  pointing  out  the  flagrant  mistakes  in  metre,  in 
grammar,  in  sense ;  and  I  snatched  the  paper  out  of 
his  hand  and  ran  away.  My  childish  heart  was  full 
of  conflicting  emotions  —  delight  at  my  father's  ap 
proval —  vexation  with  my  brother  —  shame  at  my 
own  ignorance  in  writing  so  incorrectly.  For  a  long 
period  after  that  I  kept  every  thing  I  wrote  carefully 
locked  up,  and  made  a  bonfire  when  my  store  accumu 
lated  beyond  bounds. 


SCHOOL    DATS.  33 

At  school  I  was  too  wild,  too  "  ungovernably  gay,"  to 
gain  the  highest  honors.  I  learned  with  great  rapidity 
any  thing  I  fancied ;  but  the  good  marks  I  got  for  my 
studies  were  too  often  counterbalanced  by  bad  marks 
received  for  talking,  making  the  other  girls  laugh,  or 
disobeying  rules.  I  and  one  of  my  younger  sisters  were 
constantly  convicted  of  being  ringleaders  in  all  mis 
chief  which  had  merriment  for  its  end.  I  was  general 
ly  at  the  head,  or  very  near  the  head,  of  classes  for 
reading,  recitation  of  poetry,  mythology,  history,  physi 
ology,  mental  philosophy,  &c.,  but  as  invariably  at  the 
foot  of  grammar,  arithmetic,  algebra.  The  multiplica 
tion  table  I  never  succeeded  in  learning.  Sums  in  the 
rule  of  three,  and  French  verbs,  were  my  childhood's 
miseries.  I  considered  them  invented  for  my  own  par 
ticular  torment.  I  got  into  the  more  deep  disgrace  on 
these  points  because  I  was  tolerably  bright  in  other  re 
spects. 

During  a  portion  of  our  school-day  probation,  two 
sisters  and  I  were  placed  at  boarding  school  in  New  Ro 
chelle.  There  I  was  really  unhappy.  I  had  but  one 
source  of  consolation  and  delight  —  the  little  garden 
which  I  was  permitted  to  plant  and  call  my  own.  "We 
each  were  given  a  bit  of  ground  about  four  feet  square, 
and  allowed  to  work  there  a  short  time  every  day. 
These  are  the  only  happy  hours  I  can  remember 
amongst  the  many  lonely  and  miserable  ones  that  made 
up  the  year.  Nor  were  these  miseries  imaginary.  We 
were  harshly  treated  —  punished  for  the  slightest  in 
fringement  of  most  severe  rules  —  inadequately  fed 
—  and  deprived  of  all  pleasures  but  a,  formal  walk 
every  afternoon,  a  short  "  intermission  "  twice  a  day,  (at 
which  we  were  forbidden  to  make  any  noise,)  and  the 
3 


34       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

much-prized  and  delightful  garden  digging.  When  I 
was  twelve  years  old,  we  were  summoned  home.  Our 
father's  house  seemed  paradise,  indeed,  from  the  contrast. 
We  once  more  became  day  scholars  in  good  schools,  and 
merry  as  uncaged  linnets. 

Our  favorite  amusement  continued  to  be  the  enacting 
of  plays  and  reciting  poetical  dialogues.  I  soon  became 
stage  manager  and  director  of  all  these  dramatic  per 
formances,  and  was  called  upon  to  write  fresh  scenes, 
add  in  new  characters,  or  alter  the  denouements,  accord 
ing  to  the  fancies  of  our  whimsical  little  corps. 
Sometimes  we  invented  the  plots  of  these  plays,  —  or 
selected  them  from  incidents  in  history,  —  chose  charac 
ters,  dressed  for  them,  and  improvised  the  dialogues  and 
the  scenes  during  performance.  We  did  not  care  par 
ticularly  for  audiences  —  they  generally  consisted  of  our 
schoolmates  or  any  accidental  visitors,  and  very  often 
we  had  no  audience  at  all.  These  plays  merely  took 
the  place  of  other  childish  games,  and  afforded  an  intel 
lectual  excitement  as  well  as  amusement. 

I  was  fourteen  years  old  when  I  conceived  the  project 
of  preparing  some  grand  celebration  in  honor  of  our 
father's  birthday.  We  would  enact  a  standard  play  — 
a  real  play.  It  should  be  studied  and  produced  with 
great  care.  The  friends  of  our  elder  sisters  and  our 
parents  should  be  invited  as  well  as  our  own.  For  once, 
we  would  act  before  grown-up  people,  and  on  a  great  oc 
casion.  The  play  selected  —  because  it  required  no 
scenery,  and  only  such  characters  as  we  could  readily  fill, 
with  the  assistance  of  some  school  friends  —  was  Vol 
taire's  Alzire,  translated  into  English.  All  our  male 
characters  were  represented  by  young  girls,  for  our 
brothers  had  passed  the  days  when  they  could  have 


ALZIRE.  35 

been  persuaded  to  wear  the  sock  and  buskin  amongst 
juveniles.  Our  parents  would  not  have  allowed  us  to 
supply  their  places  with  any  but  those  of  our  own  sex. 

A  great  difficulty  arose  in  procuring  costumes  for  the 
Spanish  and  Moorish  heroes  —  a  difficulty  which  came 
near  ruining  our  project.  Mr.  Simpson,  the  excellent 
and  gentlemanly  manager  of  the  Park  Theatre,  with  his 
delightful  family,  lived  opposite.  We  had  no  acquaint 
ance  with  them  beyond  bowing  to  the  children  when 
we  met  in  the  street.  It  was  proposed,  however,  that 
three  or  four  of  the  most  confident  of  our  number  should 
pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Simpson,  and  beg  her  to  use  her  in 
fluence  with  her  husband  to  lend  us  certain  costumes 
from  the  wardrobe  of  the  theatre.  Mrs.  Simpson  re 
ceived  us  very  kindly.  I  was  made  spokesman  on  the 
occasion,  and,  but  for  her  sweet  face  and  gentle  manners, 
should  have  found  some  difficulty  in  making  known  the 
wishes  of  our  youthful  committee.  Evidently  much 
amused  at  our  enthusiasm,  she  promised  that  we  should 
have  the  dresses.  In  return,  we  invited  her  children  to 
l)e  present  at  the  performance. 

"We  had  many,  a  great  many,  rehearsals,  some  before 
our  parents  and  elder  sisters,  who,  after  witnessing  one 
of  these,  consented  to  invite  their  friends.  When  the 
play  concluded,  the  evening  was  to  end  with  a  ball. 
The  performance  was  to  take  place  in  the  back  draw 
ing  room.  To  supply  the  place  of  scenery,  it  was  hung 
round  with  crimson  curtains,  through  which  we  were  to 
make  our  entrances  and  exeunts.  The  audience  were 
to  sit  in  rows  in  the  front  drawing  room.  We  had  a 
drop  curtain  and  a  prompter,  who  stood  ready  with  his 
book  and  bell  (or  rather  her  book  and  bell,  for  she  was 
a  young  lady)  to  mark  the  division  of  the  acts  by  the 


36       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

falling  of  the  curtain.  Of  course,  there  could  be  no 
change  of  scene.  The  audience  were  supposed  courte 
ously  to  imagine  when  we  were  talking  by  moonlight  in 
a  wood",  or  by  torchlight  in  a  prison,  or  by  daylight  in 
a  lady's  boudoir. 

The  eventful  evening  so  anxiously  expected  by  our 
little  troupe  came,  and  with  it  a  host  of  visitors.  They 
were  presented  with  neatly-written  programmes  at  the 
door,  and  seated  in  a  manner  to  allow  the  old  people  and 
children  a  close  proximity  to  the  stage.  A  prologue 
had  been  written  by  a  talented  friend,  (Miss  Anna  L. 
Putnam,  sister  of  the  publisher,)  to  be  spoken  by  our 
youngest  little  sister  Julia,  then  scarcely  four  years  old. 
She  was  my  pupil,  and  I  had  cause  to  be  proud  of 
her.  I  think  I  was  more  anxious  that  she  should  acquit 
herself  brilliantly  than  that  I  should  perform  my  own  part 
with  eclat.  Her  talent  for  the  stage,  even  at  that  age,  was 
a  marvel.  She  did  not  speak  with  parrot-like  precision, 
as  though  the  words  had  been  taught  to  her ;  but  uttered 
them  as  though  she  comprehended  them,  knew  their  full 
value,  and  gave  them  a  meaning  of  her  own. 

The  curtain  rose,  and  she  came  tripping  forward,  un 
shadowed  by  the  touch  of  fear  —  a  round,  rosy,  lovely 
child,  with  a  look  full  of  intellect,  and  a  grace  which  no 
art  could  teach.  On  her  fair,  curling  hair  we  had 
placed  a  wreath  of  rosebuds  and  leaves ;  and  she  wore 
a  little  white  dress,  looped  up  with  pink  ribbons.  Her 
recitation  of  the  prologue  seemed  to  me  perfection  ;  and 
those  who  were  better  judges,  and  still  remember  it,  say 
that  no  poem  could  have  been  more  effectively  delivered. 
Her  presence  of  mind  must  have  been  something  re 
markable,  for,  the  curtain  not  faUing  at  the  right  mo 
ment,  she  prettily  repeated  over  the  last  lines,  kissing 


PREJUDICE   AGAINST   THEATRES.      '  37 

her  hand  and  courtesying  three  or  four  times  as  she 
backed  up  the  stage  with  the  knowledge  of  a  veteran 
artist.  This  had  not  been  taught  to  her.  As  soon  as 
we  could  catch  her  in  our  arms,  she  was  almost  smoth 
ered  with  kisses;  but  she  was  a  calm,  self-possessed 
little  creature,  free  from  all  vanity,  and  did  not  appear 
in  the  least  excited.  She  had  played  her  part  well,  and 
only  wanted  to  escape  into  the  drawing  room,  to  sit  on 
her  mother's  knee  and  watch  the  others  perform. 

The  play  went  off  with  great  eclat,  as  the  tears  of  the 
audience,  bestowed  as  freely  as  their  applause,  amply 
testified.  I  enacted  the  part  of  Alzire,  and  succeeded 
in  losing  my  own  identity  in  that  of  the  heroine.  My 
father  came  behind  the  scenes  when  the  play  was  over, 
and  his  words  of  commendation  sank  deep  in  my  heart. 
I  wondered  if  I  really  deserved  them,  and  if  other 
people  would  say  the  same.  Our  stage  dresses  were 
quickly  laid  aside  for  ball  costume,  and  the  evening 
ended  with  dancing  and  great  hilarity. 

Strange  to  say,  up  to  this  period  I  had  visited  a 
theatre  but  once,  and  that  only  a  few  weeks  before  our 
birthday  fete.  For  some  years  our  parents  and  their 

children  had  all  attended  the  church  of  Dr.  E n,  now 

Bishop  E n.  I  went  to  Sunday  school  with  my 

sisters  twice  every  Sunday  —  at  first  as  pupil,  and  then 
as  teacher.  I  had  a  species  of  enthusiastic  admiration 

and  reverence  for  Bishop  E n.  I  loved  to  see  him 

enter  the  Sunday  school ;  I  loved  to  hear  him  in  the 
pulpit ;  and  was  happier  all  day  if  he  accidentally 
bestowed  upon  me  a  passing  word.  He  disapproved 
of  theatres  ;  he  pronounced  them  the  "  abodes  of  sin  and 
wickedness."  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  inquire  what 
he  really  knew  of  theatres;  but  I  trusted  implicitly 


Ob       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

in  his  supposed  information.  I  determined  that  I  never 
would  enter  such  a  dreadful  place.  My  sisters  went 
now  and  then  with  our  father ;  but,  in  spite  of  my  decided 
passion  for  plays  and  for  acting,  the  thought  of  the 
imaginary  monsters  of  evil,  which  I  was  certainly  to 
behold,  kept  me  away. 

Fanny  Kemble  was  then  taking  her  farewell  of  the 
stage.  Her  name  was  on  every  body's  lips ;  her  praises 
echoed  from  all  sides.  I  read  critiques  upon  her  acting 
in  the  papers,  and  heard  her  talked  of  as  a  most  devoted 
daughter  and  truly  excellent  woman.  I  could  not  help 
longing  to  see  her;  but  the  old  objections  were  strong 
within  me,  and  I  was  afraid  of  being  laughed  at  if  I 
confessed  that  my  interest  in  the  woman  made  me  will 
ing  to  enter  such  a  place,  as  I  supposed  a  theatre  to  be, 
to  see  the  actress.  Her  last  engagement  was  drawing 
to  a  close.  My  sisters  had  witnessed  several  of  her 
performances,  and  constantly  mentioned  them  with 
delight. 

One  morning  my  father  overtook  us  as  we  were  walk 
ing  to  school.  He  accosted  my  elder  sister  with,  "  I  am 
going  to  take  seats  to  see  Fanny  Kemble  to  night  in  the 
Hunchback.  Would  you  like  to  go  ?  " 

She,  of  course,  answered  in  the  affirmative.  I  looked 
at  my  father,  longing  for  him  to  ask  me ;  but  I  had  too 
often  cried  down  the  theatre  with  childish  violence,  and 

quoted  Dr.  E n  as  authority.  I  dared  not  request 

that  my  father  would  take  me. 

Just  as  he  was  leaving  us,  he  said,  carelessly,  "  And 
so  you,  Anna,  are  never  going  ?  " 

I  could  not  resist  the  temptation,  and  answered,  in  a 
faltering  voice,  "I  should  like  to  see  Fanny  Kemble 
just  once." 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   A   THEATRE.  39 

"  0,  you  have  changed  your  mind  ?  Very  well ;  I 
will  take  a  seat  for  you  to-night,"  was  his  reply. 

That  day  few  Were  the  studies  to  which  I  attended. 
I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  theatre,  and  do  nothing 
but  long  for  evening  to  come.  It  did  come  at  last, 
after  a  day  that  seemed  like  a  week,  and  to  the  theatre 
we  went.  When  we  entered  the  boxes,  my  first  sensa 
tion  was  of  bewilderment  at  the  crowd,  the  lights,  the 
music,  the  sea  of  expectant  faces  beneath  us  in  the  pit, 

and  mounting  in  waves  around  us  and  above  us.     Yet  I    v 

V" 
did  not  quite  forget  that  there  must  be  some  "  sin  and 

wickedness "  which  I  could  not  comprehend,  and  I 
believe  I  even  asked  my  father  to  have  the  goodness  to 
point  out  the  "  harm."  He  might  have  told  me,  what  I 
learned  in  after  years,  that  the  "  harm  "  consisted  in  the 
perversion  of  good  to  evil ;  in  abuses  which  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  drama  itself;  in  the  poison  which  evil 
minds,  like  spiders,  draw  from  the  rose  whence  the  bee 
sucks  but  honey. 

The  curtain  ascended,  and  I  was  all  eyes  and  ears. 
Fanny  Kemble  appeared  in  the  second  scene,  and  I 
thought  I  had  never  beheld  any  creature  so  perfectly- 
bewitching.  The  tones  of  her  voice  were  richest  music, 
and  her  dark,  flashing  eyes  seemed  to  penetrate  my 
very  soul.  Her  "  Clifford,  why  don't  you  speak  to 
me  ?  "  made  me  start  from  my  seat ;  and  her  "  Do  it !  " 
to  Master  Walter,  electrified  me,  as  indeed  it  did  the 
whole  audience.  The  play  was  a  reality  from  begin 
ning  to  end,  and  I  laughed  and  wept  immoderately. 

After  the  drama,  the  two  Misses  Wheatley  danced  a 
pas  de  deux  ;  and  though  I  have  since  beheld  the  finest 
European  ballet  dancers,  none  ever  made  the  delightful 
impressions  that  those  chastely-graceful  girls  left  upon 


40       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

my  mind.  I  little  thought  that  in  after  years  I  should 
have  the  pleasure  of  becoming  acquainted  with  them ; 
no  longer  children,  but  most  refined  and  accomplished 
ladiesa  exemplary  wives,  —  one  of  them  a  mother,  —  and 
both  gracing  the  high  sphere  in  which  they  move. 
Their  stage  garments  have  long  been  laid  aside ;  but  the 
stage  needs  no  better  defence  than  the  blameless  lives 
of  these  two  admirable  and  lovely  women  and  their 
mother. 

All  my  prejudices  against  the  theatre  melted  "into 
thin  air  "  with  this  first  night ;  but  I  went  very  seldom, 
not  more  than  three  or  four  times,  I  think,  while  I 
remained  at  school. 


CHAPTER  II. 

My  eldest  Sister.  —  First  Acquaintance  with  Mr.  Mowatt.  —  Singular 
Impressions.  — Sudden  Project  of  educating  a  Child  for  a  Wife.  — 
Madam  Chegaray's  School.  —  Alzire.  —  Attempt  at  an  Offer  frus 
trated. —  The  first  Love  Letter. — A  Refusal  and  a  Consent. — 
My  Father's  Stipulations.  —  A  Wedding  Party  icithout  a  Bride.  — 
Preparations  for  the  Performance  of  the  Drama  of  the  Mourning 
Bride.  —  Effect  of  a  Lover's  Melancholy.  —  A  Promise.  —  The 
Confidant.  —  Xovel  Mode  of  procuring  and  preparing  a  bridal 
Wardrobe.  —  Adventures.  —  Refusal  of  three  Clergymen  to  perform 
the  Ceremony.  —  A  runaway  Wedding.  —  Rencontre  icith  a  Father. 
— A  Child  keeps  a  Secret. — A  Farewell.  —  Breaking  the  News. — 
"  The  Bride's  Flower."— The  Pardon.  — Bridal  Celebration. 

I  MUST  go  back  to  my  thirteenth  year,  to  relate  one  of 
the  most  important  incidents  of  my  life,  the  one  which 
was  to  govern  my  whole  future  existence.  My  eldest 
sister  Charlotte,  with  her  two  little  children,  passed  a 
summer  at  Rockaway,  for  the  enjoyment  of  sea  bathing. 
Among  the  guests  at  Rock  Hall  was  James  Mowatt,  of 
New  York,  a  young  barrister  of  education  and  fortune. 
He  was  much  charmed  with  my  sister,  imagining  her  to 
be  a  youthful  widow.  This  mistake  she  never  discov 
ered  until  his  admiration  was  expressed  in  open  terms. 
When  informed  that  he  was  addressing  a  married 
woman,  his  chagrin  was  so  great  that  she  laughingly 
consoled  him  by  saying,  "  O,  I  have  plenty  of  young 
sisters  at  home,  and  one  of  them  very  much  resembles 
me.  Call  upon  me  in  New  York,  and  I  will  make  you 
acquainted  with  her." 

41 


42       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

• 

In  a  few  weeks  she  returned  to  the  city.  Mr.  Mowatt 
made  no  delay  in  paying  his  respects.  The  school, 
which  four  of  us  children  attended,  was  directly  oppo 
site  eur  residence.  While  we  were  in  the  midst  of  our 
studies  one  day,  a  messenger  came  to  say  that  the  eldest 
of  the  schoolgirl  sisters  must  come  home.  She  was  the 
one  that  strikingly  resembled  our  sister  Charlotte.  I 
asked  the  servant  if  any  thing  had  happened.  She  re 
plied,  "  No ;  that  there  was  only  a  gentleman  in  the  draw« 
ing  room,  who  entreated  that  my  sister  might  be  sent 
for."  I  had  heard  Mr.  Mowatt  much  talked  of  in  the 
family,  and  felt  a  childish  curiosity  to  see  him.  With 
out  permission,  I  accompanied  my  sister  home,  and 
watched  her  while  her  beautiful  hair  was  recurled,  and 
her  schooldress  laid  aside  for  a  more  becoming  attire. 
She  was  ushered  into  the  drawing  room ;  and  I,  of  course, 
dared  not  enter. 

After  waiting  about  half  an  hour,  I  remembered  that 
I  had  received  no  permission  to  leave  school,  and,  cer 
tain  visions  of  black  marks  rising  up  before  me,  I  thought 
it  judicious  to  return.  But  to  go  back  without  having 
seen  this  much-talked-of  beau  —  I  could  not  do  that. 
I  would  enter  the  drawing  room  on  some  pretext.  After 
hesitating  a  while,  I  opened  the  door,  ran  across  the 
room,  threw  down  my  satchel  of  school  books  upon 
the  centre  table,  —  as  though  that  must  be  their  proper 
place,  —  gave  one  look  towards  the  sofa,  and*  ran  out 
again. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  I  heard  the  gentleman  exclaim. 

"Only  one  of  the  children  from  the  nursery,"  an- 
.  swered  my  eldest  sister. 

"  Do  call  her  back,"  he  urged. 

My  sister  came  to  the  door  and  called  out,  as  I  was 


LOVE   AT   FIRST    SIGHT.  43 

flying  up  stairs,  tolerably  frightened  at  what  I  had  done, 
"  Anna,  Anna,  come  back  and  speak  to  Mr.  Mowatt !  " 

"  /  don't  care  for  Mr.  Mowatt ! "  was  the  saucy  re 
ply  that  reached  his  ears  ;  and  away  I  went. 

A  servant  was  sent  to  summon  me,  but  I  refused  to 
comply.  I  waited  until  I  heard  the  gentleman  take  his 
leave,  then  hurried  down  stairs  to  return  to  school. 
Mr.  Mowatt  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  street  door 
steps,  and  placed  himself  in  front  of  me  with  extended 
arms.  There  was  no  retreat,  and  he  kept  me  prisoner 
for  some  time.  I  was,  indeed,  — 

"  Wayward,  bold,  and  wild, 
A  self-willed  imp,  a  grandam's  child; 
And  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest, 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  caressed,"  — 

and  I  answered  his  many  questions  with  saucy,  merry 
frankness,  every  now  and  then  imploring  to  be  freed. 
Finding  he  would  not  consent,  I  watched  my  opportu 
nity,  suddenly  slipped  beneath  his  arm,  and  ran  across 
the  street  to  school.  I  well  remember  the  expression 
of  his  face  as  I  looked  back,  laughing  heartily  at  the 
astonishment  of  my  discomfited  jailer. 

I  have  very  many  times  heard  Mr.  Mowatt  describe 
this  first  interview  to  his  friends,  particularly  to  Mary 
Howitt,  of  London,  and  I  only  regret  that  I  cannot  con 
vey  his  impressions  in  the  same  language.  Soon  after 
he  left  the  house,  he  encountered  an  intimate  acquaint 
ance.  The  subject  turned  upon  courtship  and  matri 
mony.  His  friend  asked  him  how  long  he  intended  to 
remain  a  bachelor. 

"  Not  long,"  he  replied,  "  if  a  little  girl  whom  I  saw 
to-day  would  only  grow  up."  He  then  related  what 


44       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

had  taken  place,  and  added,  emphatically,  "  I  feel  as 
though  I  should  never  marry  unless  I  marry  that 
child." 

I  have  often  heard  him  repeat  his  having  used  these 
words,  and  quote  in  connection  with  them  Moore's  beau 
tiful  lines  —  , 

"  O,  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, 
As  though  the  soul  that  moment  caught 
Some  object  it  through  life  had  sought." 

From  that  moment  he  conceived  the  project  of  edu 
cating  me  to  suit  his  own  views  —  of  gaming  my  affec 
tions,  and,  the  instant  I  was  old  enough  to  be  considered 
marriageable,  of  taking  me  to  his  own  home  —  his  child- 
wife.  His  visits  to  the  family  became  very  frequent. 
He  always  inquired  for  me ;  but  I  was  generally  at 
school,  or  studying  my  lessons,  or  had  gone  to  bed ;  and 
he  was  constantly  frustrated  in  his  desire  to  see  me. 
But  his  perseverance  comprehended  no  discouragement. 
Our  school  was  now  changed  —  we  were  placed  at 
Madame  Chegaray's,  to  be  instructed  in  the  higher 
branches  of  education.  On  our  way  to  school  (which 
was  about  half  a  mile  distant  from  our  home)  we  regu 
larly  encountered  Mr.  Mowatt.  He  would  walk  beside 
me,  carry  my  books  and  slate,  and  question  me  about 
my  studies.  Sometimes  he  made  them  clearer  to  me  ; 
and  very  soon,  under  the  stimulus  of  his  suggestions, 
my  ambition  to  become  an  accomplished  scholar  was 
aroused.  Now  and  then  I  would  propose  to  my  sisters, 
for  mischief,  to  take  a  different  road,  that  he  might  miss 
us";  but  after  a  couple  of  days  he  discovered  the  strata 
gem,  and  stationed  one  of  his  clerks  to  watch  which 


AN    OFFER   FRUSTRATED.  45 

street  we  took.  He  was  thus  instantly  apprised  if  wo 
were  going  different  ways. 

I  thought  it  very  grand  to  have  so  devoted  a  lover, 
and  played  the  tyrant  at  thirteen  and  fourteen  to  my 
heart's  content.  Yet  I  owed  almost  entirely  to  Mr. 
Mowatt  the  rapid  progress  which  I  made  in  my  studies 
at  these  ages.  He  directed  my  reading,  furnished 
me  with  books,  examined  all  my  compositions,  and 
(what  I  thought  most  delightful  of  all)  supplied  me 
with  an  endless  quantity  of  flowers,  as  a  species  of  re 
ward  for  my  industry. 

He  was  present  at  my  performance  of  Alzire,  and 
was  naturally  the  most  enthusiastic  where  all  were  en 
thusiastic.  The  next  morning  he  determined  to  offer 
himself,  although  I  was  not  yet  fifteen.  It  was  Satur 
day,  and  there  was  no  school.  He  called  very  early, 
and  asked  particularly  for  me.  "While  my  sisters  were 
making  their  toilets,  I  hastened  to  the  parlor  in  my 
morning  dress.  I  was  eager  to  listen  to  praises  of  the 
past  night's  efforts.  But  I  was  not  more  disappointed 
than  astonished  when  the  gentleman  awaiting  me  com 
menced  a  serious  conversation,  without  making  the 
slightest  allusion  to  the  play.  I  only  comprehended 
enough  to  be  alarmed.  I  did  not  reply,  but,  jumping  up, 
called  to  my  sister  Charlotte  to  come  down  stairs  quickly. 
She  did  so,  inquiring  what  was  the  matter.  Of  course, 
this  was  an  unanswerable  question,  and  the  situation  of 
two  of  the  parties  concerned  must  have  been  particularly 
ludicrous. 

When  Mr.  Mowatt  left,  I  told  her  what  had  passed. 
She  laughed,  and  said  he  was  making  sport  of  me, 
because  I  was  such  a  forward  child.  But  the  sport 
proved  earnest,  and  what  I  refused  to  listen  to  that  day 


46        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

was  conveyed  to  me  by  letter  the  next.  A  school 
girl  of  fourteen  pondering  over  a  love  letter  —  an  offer 
of  marriage  from  a  man  many  years  her  senior.  It 
was  In  itself  an  amusing  situation ;  yet  I  found  it  a 
painful  one.  I  carried  the  important  document  to"  one 
of  my  sisters,  (the  next  to  the  eldest,)  and,  making  her 
promise  secrecy,  placed  the  letter  in  her  hands.  She 
read  it  without  comment. 

"Well,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  in 
quired,  at  its  conclusion. 

"  Get  you  to  help  me  to  write  an  answer,  and  tell  him 
I  am  too  young  to  marry  any  body,  and  say  something 
about  friendship,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  —  because  I 
do  like  him  very  much." 

She  told  me  I  must  write  the  letter  myself,  and  she 
would  correct  it  —  she  could  do  nothing  more.  I  went  to 
the  nursery,  for,  ludicrous  as  it  sounds,  I  still  belonged 
to  the  nursery  —  slept  there,  and  there  kept  my  books 
and  writing  materials ;  and  to  the  nursery  I  took  my 
love  letter.  I  began  an  answer,  and  tore  it  up  — 
and  began  another,  and  another ;  and  at  last  succeeded 
in  writing  a  page  of  nonsense,  which  I  thought  very 
good  sense.  I  took  it  to  my  sister  to  read.  She  pro 
nounced  that  it  would  do ;  and  the  letter  was  sent  by 
post. 

Its  effect,  however,  was  very  different  from  what  we 
anticipated.  Mr.  Mowatt  merely  laughed  at  what  he 
considered  girlish  shyness.  He  increased,  rather  than 
diminished,  the  number  of  his  visits,  and  assumed  the 
bearing  of  an  accepted,  instead  of  a  rejected,  lover 
This  went  on  for  some  time,  and  he  took  frequent  op 
portunities  of  assuring  me  that  he  could  never  be  made 
to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  No."  It  was 


BRIDAL   PARTY   WITHOUT   A   BRIDE.  47 

a  safe  way  to  woo  a  child,  and  when  I  was  within  a  few 
weeks  of  fifteen,  the  "  No  "  was  forgotten,  and  a  "  Yes  " 
had  taken  its  place. 

My  father's  consent  was  asked.  He  could  find  no 
objection  to  Mr.  Mo  watt,  and  made  my  extreme  youth 
the  only  barrier.  He  replied,  that,  if  we  both  remained 
of  the  same  mind  until  I  was  seventeen,  he  would  give 
his  sanction  to  our  union.  Meantime,  Mr.  Mowatt 
might  continue  his  visits,  and  see  me  as  often  as  any 
other  gentleman. 

This  answer  did  not  satisfy  a  lover  whose  principal 
object  was  to  direct  the  whole  education  of  the  girl  he 
married.  But  my  father  resisted  all  entreaties  to  give 
any  other ;  especially  as  I  was  the  most  sickly  of  his 
children,  and  greatly  needed  a  mother's  care. 

At  fifteen  I  left  school,  and  took  drawing  and  music 
lessons  at  home,  only  studying  whatever  Mr.  Mow.att 
requested.  The  next  winter  I  was,  with  an  elder  sister,. 
to  be  introduced  into  society.  This  was  his  particular 
dread,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  that  I  should  become 
his  wife  before  that  winter  arrived.  For  six  months 
his  arguments  to  persuade  me  to  leave  my  father's  house 
were  used  in  vain.  Once  I  very  nearly  consented,  and 
upon  that  half  consent  he  built  such  confident  hopes  that 
the  next  morning  all  arrangements  were  made,  at  the 
house  of  his  sister-in-law,  for  the  performance  of  the 
nuptial  ceremony.  The  necessary  witnesses  were  as 
sembled,  and  a  carriage  stood  at  the  door  to  be  de 
spatched  for  the  clergyman  the  moment  I  arrived.  A 
young  friend,  who  was  to  act  as  bridesmaid,  came  for 
me  ;  but,  in  spite  of  her  persuasions  and  remonstrances, 
she  had  to  return  alone,  and  dismiss  the  expectant  bridal 
party. 


48       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

September  came,  and  the  ball  season  was  shortly  to 
commence,  A  party  was  to  be  given  again  this  year  in 
honor  of  my  father's  birthday,  October  17,  and  we  were 
to  enact  another  play.  The  Mourning  Bride  was  se 
lected  ;  but  there  being  no  character  in  which  the  talents 
of  our  gifted  little  sister  Julia  could  be  displayed,  I  was 
called  upon  to  write  a  part.  The  only  way  I  could 
devise  was  to  furnish  Queen  Zara  with  a  child,  which 
child  certainly  proved  a  most  wise,  energetic,  and  talk 
ative  personage.  The  author  would,  I  fancy,  have  been 
somewhat  astonished  and  amused  at  the  novel  intro 
duction. 

For  weeks  scarcely  any  thing  was  talked  of  but  cos 
tumes,  and  rehearsals,  and  scenic  effects,  and  I  found 
more  pleasure  than  ever  in  conducting  the  stage  man 
agement.  I  was  to  enact  one  of  the  two  heroines.  But 
our  merry  preparations  were  doomed  to  have  a  sudden 
interruption. 

/I  was  pained  to  find  that  Mr.  Mowatt  no  longer  en 
joyed  his  daily  visits.  He  had  become  gloomy  and  dis 
contented.  He  did  not  like  the  prospect  of  my  entering 
into  the  gay  world.  He  was  convinced  that,  with  my 
lively  and  excitable  temperament,  I  would  soon  abandon 
my  studies,  and  be  wholly  engrossed  by  social  gayeties. 
I  would  be  either  lost  to  him,  or  so  completely  spoiled  by 
too  early  an  intercourse  with  society  that  his  hopes  con 
cerning  me  could  never  be  realized.  Then  he  was  no 
favorite  with  my  family  in  general.  They  did  not  ap 
prove  of  my  premature  engagement.  He  was  con 
stantly  subjected  to  slights  and  annoyances;  to  which  a 
man  of  spirit  could  ill  submit.  He  made  me  feel  that 
he  was  unhappy,  and  daily  becoming  more  so.  More 
earnestly  than  ever  he  entreated  me  to  become  his  wife 


EFFECT    OF    A    LOVER'S    MELANCHOLY.  49 

without  further  delay.  I  proposed  that  we  should  again 
attempt  to  obtain  my  father's  sanction ;  but  that  Mr. 
Mowatt  pronounced  useless.  For  a  long  time  I  resisted 
his  persuasions ;  but  at  last,  when  he  had  ceased  to  en 
treat  me,  I  was  so  much  grieved  by  the  painfulness  of 
his  position,  and  the  sight  of  his  deepening  melancholy, 
that  of  my  own  free  will  I  gave  him  a  promise  that  we 
should  be  united  within  a  week. 

Young  as  I  was,  and  totally  incapable  of  appreciating 
the  importance  of  the  step  I  was  taking,  I  did  not  come 
to  this  determination  without  much  suffering.  But  once 
having  resolved,  once  having  promised,  nothing  earthly 
could  have  shaken  my  resolution. 

I  did  not  dread  my  mother's  anger,  for  I  had  never 
seen  her  lovely  face  distorted  by  passion.  I  had  never 
heard  her  voice  raised  to  an  angry  tone.  I  was  sure  of 
her  tenderness,  sure  of  her  pardon.  I  had  more  fear 
of  my  father.  But  I  was  a  favorite  child ;  he  had  ever 
been  most  indulgent ;  he  was  seldom  vexed  with  me ; 
and  I  trusted  to  his  love,  and  believed  that  he  would 
easily  be  reconciled  to  me  in  spite  of  my  disobedience. 
I  was  not  marrying  a  man  to  whom  he  had  refused  his 
consent.  I  was  only  anticipating  the  two  years  during 
which  he  thought  it  necessary  for  me  to  wait.  I  readily 
argued  myself  into  the  belief  that  I  should  be  forgiven. 

The  play  for  which  we  were  nearly  prepared,  and 
the  ball  —  those  had  to  be  given  up.  But  I  could  not 
relinquish  all  thoughts  of  them  without  great  regret  at 
the  disappointment  which  I  knew  my  sisters  would  expe 
rience. 

What  was  I  to  do?  and  who  was  to  aid  me?  I 
could  not  leave  my  father's  house  alone.  I  could  not  be 
married  without  a  bridal  icardrobe.  These  were  huge 
4 


50       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

barriers  to  be  surmounted;  but  I  went  resolutely  to 
work,  determined  to  overcome  them.  I  first  confided 
my  secret  to  a  young  nursery  maid  in  the  family,  to 
whom  I  was  much  attached.  I  entreated  her  to  accom 
pany  me  when  I  left  iny  home,  and  she  consented. 
Then  I  went  to  my  sister  Matilda,  with  whom  I  was 
most  intimate.  After  making  her  solemnly  promise  that 
she  would  not  betray  me,  I  told  her  that  I  intended  to  be 
married  privately  within  a  week.  She  was  very  much 
startled  and  overcome.  She  used  arguments,  entrea 
ties,  prayers,  to  dissuade  me.  She  tried  to  convince  me 
that  I  would  not  be  forgiven ;  that  I  might  repent 
through  my  whole  future  life  the  step  that  I  was  so 
rashly  taking.  My  only  answer  was,  "  I  have  prom 
ised,  and  cannot  break  my  word.  You  have  promised, 
and  cannot  betray  me." 

Finding  that  I  was  not  to  be  moved,  she  concluded 
that  the  wisest  plan  was  to  lend  me  every  assistance  in 
her  power.  Reluctantly  and  sadly,  against  her  better 
judgment,  she  promised  me  her  services. 

We  were  sorely  puzzled  how  to  procure  a  wardrobe, 
and  a  wardrobe  seemed  to  us  indispensable.  The  first 
difficulty  was  how  to  obtain  the  money  to  purchase  one, 
and  the  next  how  to  have  the  materials  made  up  when 
they  were  bought. 

I  had  a  few  valuable  diamonds  and  emeralds.  I  did 
not  care  for  jewelry.  Why  should  we  not  try  to  sell 
them  ?  And  my  gold  watch  !  We  had  heard  of  three 
golden  balls  hanging  over  shops  where  people  went  to 
pledge  various  articles  for  money.  We  would  hunt  out 
one  of  these  places,  and  pawn  the  watch.  We  preferred 
that  course  to  selling  it,  because  it  was  an  ornament  I 
prized,  and  it  could  thus  be  reclaimed. 


ADVENTURES.  51 

Early  in  the  morning  we  started  on  our  errand  to 
raise  funds.  The  diamonds  and  emeralds  were  easily 
disposed  of  at  about  one  tenth  part  of  their  value.  The 
jeweller  who  bought  them  scanned  us  very  narrowly 
and  asked  a  few  questions.  Indignant  at  his  implied 
doubts,  I  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  and  said,  "  They 
are  my  own,  sir,  and  I  can  do  with  them  what  I  like." 

Whether  he  believed  me  or  not,  he  was  silenced. 
He  took  the  jewels,  and  counted  out  the  money.  I  have 
forgotten  the  exact  sum,  but  we  thought  it  a  fortune. 
After  this  we  strolled  down  the  Bowery  in  search  of  a 
pawnbroker's.  A  sign  of  three  golden  balls  soon  told 
us  that  we  had  found  one.  Scarcely  had  we  entered 
the  gloomy-looking  shop,  the  shutters  of  which  were 
half  closed,  when  we  both  became  dreadfully  frightened. 
We  should  have  hastily  retreated,  but  the  Jewish-look 
ing  man  who  kept  the  place  rose  up  from  behind  a  dark 
counter  and  accosted  us.  I  held  out  the  watch,  too 
much  alarmed  to  utter  a  word. 

"  Do  you  want  money  on  this  ?  "  he  asked,  gruffly. 

"Yes." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  As  much  as  possible." 

The  man  laughed,  and  asked  if  thirty  dollars  would 
do.  Any  thing  would  have  done  that  we  might  get 
away ;  and  we  both  replied,  "  Yes,  yes." 

He  examined  the  watch  very  closely,  and  said, 
"  Come  in  here,  young  ladies,"  pointing  to  an  inner 
apartment. 

We  hesitated.  "  Don't  go !  don't  go !  "  whispered  my 
sister,  and  we  neither  moved. 

"  Come  in,  that  I  may  give  you  a  receipt  and  you 
may  sign  your  names  in  my  book,"  continued  the  man. 


52 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    AN    ACTRESS. 


He  had  the  watch,  and  we  felt  that  we  must  comply. 
Very  tremulously,  and  holding  each  other's  hands,  we 
entered  the  room.  My  sister  being  the  elder,  he  gave 
her  a  .pen,  and  told  her  to  write  down  her  name  and  ad 
dress.  She  stood  a  moment  perfectly  bewildered  at  the 
necessity  of  making  known  our  names,  and  then  handed 
the  pen  to  me.  I  tried  to  assume  a  great  deal  of  dig 
nity,  and  seating  myself  at  the  table,  wrote,  "  Mrs. 
James,"  which  in  a  few  days  would  be  a  portion  of  my 
name.  I  forget  whether  or  not  I  invented  a  "  local 
habitation  "  for  the  anticipated  name. 

The  man  read  the  name,  looked  at  the  little  girl  who 
wrote  it,  and  seemed  very  much  inclined  to  burst  into  a 
fit  of  laughter.  He,  however,  restrained  himself,  gave 
us  the  money  and  a  receipt  for  the  watch,  and  we  hur 
ried  out  of  his  shop  with  far  more  rapid  steps  than  we 
had  entered. 

All  necessaries  for  a  wardrobe  were  next  to  be  pur 
chased.  It  was  raining  in  torrents  ;  we  were  very  much 
fatigued,  and,  feeling  quite  rich,  hired  the  first  carriage 
that  could  be  found.  For  several  hours  we  drove  about 
shopping  as  long  as  our  money  lasted,  and  filling  the 
carriage  with  our  purchases.  Amongst  other  things,  I 
insisted  upon  buying  a  large  wax  doll  to  comfort  little 
Julia  in  my  absence,  and  a  huge  basket  full  of  sugar 
plums  for  the  other  children,  which  I  hoped  would  have 
a  similar  consolatory  effect.  Rather  juvenile  "  bridal 
purchases." 

We  could  not  drive  home  in  the  carriage  without  be 
ing  questioned.  We  left  our  parcels  at  a  confectioner's 
very  near  our  house,  dismissed  the  carriage,  gave  or 
ders  that  the  bundles  should  be  sent  to  our  number, 


THE    LAY   FIGURE.  53 

addressed  to  the  nursery  maid,  who  was  to  accompany 
me  on  my  bridal  expedition,  and  walked  home. 

The  next  question  was,  How  could  the  newly-pur 
chased  wardrobe  be  made  up  ?  There  was  no  resource 
but  to  nvl:"  it  ourselves,  with  the  assistance  of  the  nur 
sery  inuid.  But  at  what  time  could  this  be  accom 
plished  without  our  being  seen  ?  It  must  be  at  night  — 
we  must  work  instead  of  sleeping.  My  sister  slept 
alone  in  a  small  room  beneath  the  nursery,  and  there  we 
proposed  to  meet.  "We  arranged  to  retire  early,  and  as 
soon  as  the  house  was  quiet  the  nursery  maid  and  I 
would  steal  cautiously  to  my  sister's  room,  and  we  would 
sit  up  until  daylight  and  sew.  Another  difficulty  sprang 
up.  My  mother  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  nur 
sery  once  or  twice  every  night  and  seeing  that  the  chil 
dren  were  well  covered  and  rested  quietly.  If  my  little 
bed  in  the  corner  should  be  found  empty,  search  would, 
of  course,  be  made  for  me.  But  we  were  not  baffled 
yet.  We  made  a  figure  of  rags,  dressed  it  in  my 
nightclothes,  put  a  cap  on  the  head,  and  turned  the  face 
to  the  wall,  taking  care  that  the  shoulders  were  nicely 
covered.  My  mother  would  think  I  was  sleeping, 
and  not  disturb  me.  The  plot  succeeded.  Night 
after  night,  for  five  or  six  nights,  we  three  sat  up,  cut 
ting  out,  fitting,  sewing,  making  our  needles  fly  with  a 
scarcely  credible  rapidity.  We  were  too  much  excited 
to  grow  sleepy,  and  accomplished  an  amount  of  work 
which  now  seems  wonderful.  At  daybreak  we  went 
on  tiptoe  to  our  beds,  after  carefully  concealing  the  lay 
figure,  that  my  weary  limbs  might  take  its  place. 

At  length  the  6th  of  .October  came  —  the  day  on 
which  I  had  promised  to  be  married.  My  slender  ward- 


54       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

robe  was  completed  —  all  our  arrangements  made.  The 
day  dawned  magnificently  —  every  thing  looked  propi 
tious.  It  might  well  be  said  of  that  day,  as  of  the  new 
life  v/liich  it  commenced,  — 

"  Her  dawn 

"Was  bright  with  sunbeams,  whence  was  drawn 
A  sure  prognostic  that  the  day 
Would  not  unclouded  pass  away." 

There  had  been  some  difficulty  in  procuring  a  clergy 
man  to  perform  the  ceremony.  Mr.  Ho  watt  first  ap 
plied  to  Bishop  Onderdonk.  But  he  knew  my  father 
well  —  he  had  children  of  his  own  —  it  was  not  a  good 
example  to  set  them  —  he  preferred  that  some  other 
clergyman  should  be  selected.  I  desired  that  Dr. 

E ir,  whose  church  I  attended,  and  in  whose  Sunday 

school  I  had  been  a  scholar  for  some  years,  and  was 
then  a  teacher,  should  be  asked.  He  also  refused.  A 

third  refusal  came  from  Dr.  J n.  Mr.  Mowatt, 

nothing  daunted,  then  applied  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  V n, 

the  French  pastor.  This  gentleman's  own  had  been  a 
runaway  marriage;  therefore  he  could  not  object.  He 
consented.  The  bridal  party  were  requested  to  assem 
ble  at  his  house  at  ten  o'clock. 

My  sister  dressed  me  in  a  plain  white  cambric  dress. 
My  little  straw  bonnet  chanced  to  be  trimmed  with 
white  ribbons,  and  the  veil  and  white  gloves  which  we 
had  purchased  she  carried  rolled  in  her  handkerchief. 
They  were  not  to  be  put  on  till  we  were  out  of  sight 
of  the  house.  I  kissed  my  father  before  he  went  out, 
but  felt  myself  becoming  so  agitated,  that  it  was  well  he 
was  in  haste  and  did  not  ijptice  me.  Just  as  I  was 
opening  the  street  door,  my  mother  came  into  the  entry, 
and  I  kissed  her  also.  She  remarked  my  white  dress, 


A   RUNAWAY    WEDDING.  55 

and  asked  if  I  were  not  too  lightly  clad  for  such  cold 
weather.  I  answered  that  I  felt  quite  warm,  and  she 
allowed  me  to  depart. 

My  poor  sister,  I  think,  suffered  even  more  than  I 
did ;  the  blame  was  all  to  fall  on  her.  She  had  done 
her  utmost  to  dissuade  me,  and  now  had  to  assist  in  de 
priving  herself  of  a  beloved  companion  ;  for,  being  next 
to  each  other  in  age,  we  were  very  closely  united  in 
affection.  I  could  not  thank  her  at  the  time,  but  her 
unselfishness  touched  me  deeply. 

We  left  the  house,  and,  turning  the  first  corner,  she 
threw  the  bridal  veil  over  my  bonnet,  gave  me  the 
white  gloves,  and  begged  me  to  try  and  look  composed 
before  J  met  Mr.  Mowatt  and  his  friends. 

"Wonderfully  composed  I  was.  Of  the  future  I  did 
not  even  think ;  my  only  grief  was  at  leaving  my  par 
ents,  my  sisters,  my  home  —  leaving  the  love  "  which 
had  still  been  true,"  for  the  "  love  which  was  untried 
and  new."  What  could  a  girl  of  fifteen  know  of  the 
sacred  duties  of  a  wife  ?  With  what  eyes  could  she 
contemplate  the  new  and  important  life  into  which  she 
was  entering  ?  She  had  known  nothing  but  her  child 
hood  —  had  scarcely  commenced  her  girlhood.  What 
could  she  comprehend  of  the  trials,  the  cares,  the  hopes, 
the  responsibilities  of  womanhood  ?  I  thought  of  none 
of  these  things.  I  had  always  been  lighthearted  to  a 
degree  that  savored  of  frivolity.  I  usually  made  a  jest 
of  every  thing  —  yet  I  did  not  look  upon  this  matter  as 
a  frolic.  I  only  remembered  that  I  was  keeping  a 
promise.  I  had  perfect  faith  in  the  tenderness  of  him 
to  whom  I  confided  myself.  I  did  not  in  the  least  real 
ize  the  novelty  of  my  own  situation. 

At  St.  John's  Park  we  met  Mr.  Mowatt  and  his  two 


56        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  ON  AN  ACTRESS. 

groomsmen.  I  took  his  arm,  and  we  walked  to  the 
house  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  V n,  my  sister  and  the  gen 
tlemen  following. 

We  were  ushered  into  the  drawing  room.  Mr. 

V n  entered  in  his  robes.  He,  of  course,  did  not 

know  which  of  the  sisters  was  the  bride.  He  took  his 
seat,  opened  a  large  register,  and  asked  the  names  and 
ages  of  the  parties  about  to  be  married.  When  I  re 
plied  in  giving  my  name,  he  looked  at  me  steadily,  and 
with  some  surprise. 

"  Your  age  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Fifteen." 

He  put  down  his  pen,  and  repeated  the  question. 
For  a  few  seconds  he  seemed  doubtful  whether  he 
ought  to  proceed.  I  was  thought  to  look  younger  even 
than  my  years ;  and  I  was  dressed  in  a  childlike  manner, 
which  probably  made  me  appear  younger  still. 

The  law  sanctions  the  marriage  of  a  girl  of  fifteen, 
and  he  could  not  make  any  reasonable  objection.  The 

names  were  registered.  Mr.  V n  rose  with  the 

prayer  book  in  his  hand.  We  rose  also,  and  the  cere 
mony  was  performed  in  French.  At  its  close  he 
delivered  a  beautiful  address,  intended  for  the  bride 
groom's  edification,  rather  than  for  that  of  the  childlike 
bride ;  wished  us  both  much  happiness,  and  we  took  our 
leave. 

Our  groomsmen  had  just  left  us.  We  had  hardly 
walked  a  square  when  we  encountered  my  father! 
My  sister  and  I  were  greatly  confused.  My  father 
joined  us,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  Mr. 
Mowatt.  All  at  once  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  me, 
"  Why,  how  like  a  bride  you  look  !  One  of  these  days, 
Mowatt,  she  will  grow  up  to  be  quite  a  fine  girl ! " 


A    CHILD    KEEPS    A    SECRET.  57 

I  could  not  repress  a  terrified  exclamation  at  the 
word  ';  bride,"  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  For 
tunately  my  father  was  just  leaving  us,  and  did  not  no 
tice  my  agitation. 

"We  returned  home,  and  I  passed  the  rest  of  the  day 
in  gathering  together  my  little  possessions  and  in  writ 
ing  to  my  parents.  I  was  to  leave  New  York  the  n^xt 
morning,  and  pass  a  few  weeks  in  the  country.  The 
parting  with  my  youngest  sister,  my  sweet  pupil,  I  felt 
more  deeply  than  with  all  the  rest.  She  was  bui  five 
years  old,  yet,  even  at  that  age,  her  word  could  be 
trusted,  and  after  making  her  promise  not  to  mention 
what  I  was  about  to  confide,  I  told  her  that  I  should 
soon  leave  her  —  that  I  was  married  —  that  we  should 
li ve  together  no  more.  Nothing  had  shaken  my  self- 
possession  as  did  her  passionate  burst  of  grief.  She 
clasped  her  little  arms  about  my  neck,  sobbing  out, 
"  Don't  go !  don't  go,  sister !  "  and  cried  until  she  fell 
asleep  in  my  arms.  "When  she  awoke,  I  consoled  her 
by  the  promise  of  my  speedy  return  —  and  probably  a 
description  of  the  large  wax  doll  which  she  was  to  pos 
sess  after  my  departure  was  not  without  its  composing 
effect.  But  though  she  clung  to  my  side  for  the  rest 
of  that  day,  and  now  and  then  looked  up  into  my  face 
as  though  her  heart  were  breaking,  she  kept  my  secret 
faithfully. 

Mr.  Mowatt  passed  the  evening  with  us  as  usual,  but 
little  Julia's  grief  greatly  depressed  me.  "When  he 
left,  and  I  retired  to  the  nursery,  I  could  not  help  sigh 
ing  to  think  that  I  should  no  longer  be  looked  upon  as 
one  of  the  children.  I  began  to  have  strange  forebod 
ings  of  the  future,  and  again  and  again  I  repeated  to 
myself,  "  O,  if  this  were  only  a  dream,  and  I  could 
wake  up!" 


58        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  next  morning,  immediately  after  breakfast,  I 
was  to  join  Mr.  Mowatt,  and,  accompanied  by  the  nur 
sery  maid,  we  were  to  take  the  steamboat  for  Nyack. 
His  sreter-in-law  was  residing  there,  and  to  her  he  pur 
posed  taking  me. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  I  made  some  laughing  ex 
cuse  to  kiss  every  one  present,  controlling,  with  a 
strong  effort,  the  agitation  which  I  could  not  but  feel. 
As  I  stooped  to  kiss  my  father  for  the  second  time  —  I 
had  already  been  at  his  bedside,  and  kissed  him  before 
he  rose  —  my  courage  nearly  gave  way.  In  another 
instant  I  should  have  told  him  all. 

He  looked  at  me  anxiously,  and  said,  "  What  ails 
you,  child  ?  "  I  did  not  reply  —  I  could  not  have 
answered,  "  Nothing."  I  hastened  from  the  rgom,  put 
on  my  bonnet  and  shawl,  and,  with  my  sister,  hurriedly 
left  the  house.  Little  Julia  had  followed  us  to  the  street 
door.  As  I  turned  to  look,  she  was  standing  with  my 
mother  on  the  steps,  and  kissed  her  hand  wrhen  she  saw 
me  look  back. 

"  Let  us  run  !  let  us  rim  !  "  I  said  to  my  sister,  for 
all  my  courage  was  melting  away,  and  I  could  trust  my 
self  no  longer.  And  we  did  run,  rapidly  and  without 
speaking,  until  we  reached  the  spot  where  Mr.  Mowatt 
was  waiting  for  us.  There  I  had  to  bid  adieu  to  my 
faithful  sister.  She  must  go  home  and  bear  all  the 
blame  — see  all  the  sorrow  occasioned  by  my  act,  and 
know  in  her  own  heart  that  no  fault  was  hers.  She 
had  only  aided,  through  sisterly  love,  a  step  which  she 
could  not  prevent.  Luckily  our  parting  was  hurried.  I 
had  only  time  to  thank  her,  and  beg  her  to  deliver  my 
letter  to  our  father,  and  to  write  to  me  immediately. 

With  a  heavy  heart  she  returned  home,  and  broke 


"THE  BRIDE'S  FLOWEE."  59 

the  news  to  an  elder  sister.  They  went  together  to  my 
mother,  and,  after  some  gentle  preparation,  told  her  that 
I  was  married  and  gone.  She  was  at  first  half  stunned 
by  the  information,  but,  quickly  recovering,  made  ear 
nest  inquiries  concerning  me  —  remembered  my  delicate 
health,  and  expressed  many  fears  that  I  was  not  pro 
vided  with  sufficiently  warm  clothing  to  protect  me  against 
the  cold,  which  was  becoming  severe.  Anger  had  no 
place  in  lier  heart  nor  in  her  words.  She  was  full  of 
tender  solicitude,  but  neither  chided  my  sister  for  the 
course  she  had  taken,  nor  pronounced  severely  upon  my 
own. 

My  mother  soon  after  visited  the  nursery,  and  found 
upon  my  dressing  table  a  sprig  of  geranium  that  I  had 
worn  in  my  hair,  with  a  white  rose,  the  day  previous. 
She  planted  the  geranium ;  it  grew ;  and  she  tended  it 
carefully  for  the  short  remainder  of  her  life.  She 
called  it  "  the  bride's  flower." 

It  was  different  with  my  father ;  he  was  indignant 
with  the  whole  party,  with  me,  with  my  sister,  and, 
most  of  all,  with  Mr.  Mowatt.  My  letter  failed  to 
pacify  him.  He  at  first  declared  that  he  would  never 
forgive  me,  and  it  was  three  days  before  a  letter  was 
received,  bringing  his  pardon.  Those  days  seemed 
like  a  "  never,"  indeed,  to  me.  I  began  to  believe  that 
I  had  offended  beyond  forgiveness.  I  was  almost  heart 
broken  at  the  idea  of  losing  my  father's  love,  upon 
which  I  had  drawn  too  largely.  My  thoughts,  "  through 
all  the  faultful  past,  went  sorrowing,"  and  I  could  not 
bear  to  dwell  upon  a  future  of  which  he  did  not  form 
the  principal  feature.  But  the  pardon  came,  and  an 
invitation  to  return  home.  I  begged  that  our  visit  in 
the  country  might  be  shortened,  and  we  returned  in  a 


60  AUTOBIOGRAPPIY   OF    AN    ACTRESS. 

week.  My  father,  mother,  all,  welcomed  us  with  open 
arms,  and  without  one  chiding  word.  It  was  the  true 
way  to  make  me  conscious  of  my  own  shortcomings.  I 
might  have  nerved  myself  to  meet  rebukes,  but  could 
not  bear  unmoved  the  tenderness  I  had  not  deserved. 
Mr.  Mowatt  they  received  less  cordially,,  but  still  with 
kindness. 

Great  disappointment  was  expressed  that  the  play 
of  the  Mourning  Bride  could  not  be  enacted  on  my 
father's  birthday.  He  told  us  that  we  should  have  a 
bridal  ball  instead,  and,  as  I  was  still  to  be  the  heroine, 
I  might  enact  the  "laughing  bride."  The  ball  took 
place,  but  I  fear  that,  in  my  bridal  robes,  I  appeared  to 
be  assuming  a  part  quite  as  much  as  I  should  have 
done  had  we  carried  out  our  original  intentions,  and  I 
had  worn  the  costume  of  Almeira,  the  Mourning  Bride. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Studies.  —  Flatbush.  —Purchase  of  Estate  tJiat  had  belonged  to  Gen 
eral  Giles.  —  Haunted  House.  —  My  Sister  May.  —  Our  juvenile 
Sports  and  Mode  of  Life.  —  Xumber  of  Books  read  and  commented 
upon  every  Year.  —  Shooting  Excursions. — A  first  Sorroic. — Death 
of  our  Mother. —  Melrose.  —  Sunday  School. —  Fortune  Teller  of  the 
Fair.  —  Pelayo.  —  Reviewers  Revieiced.  —  Celebration  of  Seven 
teenth  Birthday.  — Burlesque  Concerts.  —  Tableaux.  —  The  Gypsy 
Wanderer.  —  Bridal  Address.  —  III  health.  —  Departure  for  Eit- 
rope. 

THE  bearing  of  a  new  name,  and  the  wearing  of  a 
ring,  made  very  little  alteration  in  my  mode  of  life,  or 
in  the  manner  in  which  I  occupied  my  time.  I  resumed 
my  studies  almost  immediately.  Mr.  Mowatt  himself 
instructed  me  in  French  and  in  the  higher  branches  of 
English.  I  took  music  and  singing  lessons  three  times 
a  week,  and  only  abandoned  drawing  because  a  stoop 
ing  position  was  found  injurious  to  my  health.  In  this 
latter  accomplishment  several  of  my  father's  children 
had  shown  a  marked  proficiency,  which  none  had  ex 
hibited  in  music,  and  I  laid  aside  my  pencils  with  re 
gret. 

I  was  excessively  fond  of  the  country,  and  early  in 
the  spring  Mr.  Mowatt  took  me  to  reside  in  Flatbush, 
Long  Island.  The  house  in  which  we  boarded  was  a 
large,  old-fashioned  mansion,  built  before  the  revolution, 
and  had  belonged  to  General  Giles.  There  were  dark 
and  spacious  vaults  beneath  the  kitchens,  where  it  was 
said  that  English  prisoners  had  been  confined;  and 

(61) 


62       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

there  was  a  secret  chamber,  above  the  great  ball  room, 
to  which  no  access  could  be  found  save  by  a  small  win 
dow.  The  neighbors  affirmed  that  a  young  girl  had 
been  purposely  starved  to  death  in  that  chamber,  and 
that  her  ghost  wandered  at  night  about  the  house.  In 
deed,  this  report  had  gained  such  credence,  that  nothing 
could  have  induced  many  of  the  older  inhabitants  of 
the  village  to  pass  a  night  beneath  the  haunted  roof. 

The  house  stood  back  from  the  main  road,  embow 
ered  by  magnificent  old  trees.  The  property  consisted 
of  twenty  acres  of  land,  in  a  high  state  of  cultivation. 

I  became  so  much  attached  to  this  place  that  Mr. 
Mowatt  purchased  it  for  my  gratification ;  stipulating, 
however,  that  I  should  content  myself  in  passing  the 
greater  portion  of  the  year  in  the  country.  I  gladly 
consented.  The  house  was  repaired  and  refurnished  j 
the  gardens  and  orchards  enlarged,  and  planted  with  an 
innumerable  variety  of  fruit  trees  and  flowers  ;  a  green 
house  built;  a  long  arbor  erected,  where  I  could  walk 
at  midday,  quite  shaded  from  the  sun  ;  and  a  summer 
house  reared  in  its  centre,  in  which  I  could  sit  and 
write,  or  study.  I  had  numberless  pets  —  birds,  dogs, 
pigeons,  rabbits,  a  goat  and  kid,  and  a  beautiful  Arabian 
mare  for  my  own  especial  use.  We  named  her  Queen 
Mab.  At  sixteen  years  old  I  found  myself  the  mis 
tress  of  this  mansion,  without  a  wish  ungratified. 

After  a  time,  my  father  kindly  allowed  a  dear  and 
gentle  sister,  some  four  years  younger,  to  reside  with 
me,  that  I  might  not  be  lonely.  My  time  was  occupied 
in  studying,  taking  care  of  my  pets,  riding  about  the 
country,  and  instructing  my  sister  May  in  whatever  I 
learned  myself —  French,  Spanish,  music,  &c. 

Brilliantly  happy  were  the  days  we  passed  together. 


MY    SISTER    MAT.  63 

We  neither  ceased  to  be  children,  nor  gave  up  our 
childish  sports.  Our  morning  amusements  were  trun 
dling  a  couple  of  huge  hoops  through  the  favorite  arbor, 
dancing  with  the  skipping  rope,  or  floating  round  the 
"  flying  course,"  which  had  been  erected  to  promote  our 
healthful  exercise.  Sometimes  we  ordered  ladders  to 
be  placed  by  cherry  trees  loaded  down  with  fruit,  and 
spent  our  mornings  in  the  branches,  gathering  cherries, 
and  reading  when  we  were  tired.  An  easy  saddle 
horse  was  placed  at  my  sister's  disposal,  and  we  took 
long  rides  together,  accompanied  by  the  gardener  or 
coachman,  Mr.  Mowatt  not  being  fond  of  the  exercise. 
We  had  also  a  commodious  carriage,  and  a  fine  pair  of 
coach  horses,  but  May  and  I  preferred  horseback  ex 
ercise  ;  driving  seemed  too  quiet  an  amusement  for  our 
exuberant  spirits. 

From  every  book  which  I  read  I  made  extracts,  and 
wrote  down  my  impressions  of  the  work.  These  ex 
tracts  and  critiques  I  kept  in  the  form  of  a  journal. 
During  several  years,  this  journal  testified  that  I  had 
read  and  commented  upon  between  ninety  and  one 
hundred  volumes  yearly. 

Every  possible  means  was  taken  to  strengthen  my 
constitution  through  abundance  of  exercise,  and  thug 
to  ward  off  the  illnesses  to  which  I  was  subject.  For 
this  purpose,  Mr.  Mowatt  taught  me  the  use  of  the  gun. 
He  was  himself  an  admirable  sportsman.  I  had  many 
fears  and  some  scruples  to  conquer,  but  after  a  time  I 
took  aim  so  accurately  that  I  could  shoot  swallows  on 
the  wing.  Many  and  many  a  morning,  with  a  light, 
single-barrelled  gun  on  my  shoulder,  dressed  in  half 
Turkish  costume,  and  followed  by  our  dogs,  I  rambled 
with  him  for  miles  through  the  woods,  filling  the  game 


64        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

bag  which  hung  at  my  waist  with  birds  of  both  our 
shooting.  It  now  appears  to  me  a  cruel  pastime,  and 
bird  lives  no  longer  "  stand  within  my  danger."  But 
in  those  days  I  seldom  saw  with  my  own  eyes,  or  judged 
with  my  own  judgment. 

The  first  real  sorrow  I  ever  knew  fell  upon  my  heart 
as  I  stood  beside  the  death  bed  of  our  mother.  She 
was  summoned  away  within  a  year  after  my  marriage. 
For  a  time  it  seemed  as  though  all  I  prized  on  earth 
had  gone  with  her.  Her  last  hours  were  ever  present 
to  me  —  the  couch  where  she  lay,  surrounded  by  her 
weeping  children  and  their  father ;  her  exquisitely 
chiselled  features,  perfect  in  their  beauty,  becoming 
more  and  more  marble-like  as  her  breath  grew  fainter; 
her  transparent  hands,  that  lay  passively  in  ours  ;  her 
glazing  eyes,  which,  just  as  she  breathed  her  last, 
beamed  with  a  sudden  look  of  intelligence  that  fell  up 
on  her  youngest  child,  our  little  Julia  ;  and  the  seraphio 
smile  that  settled  upon  her  countenance  when  the  last 
pang  was  over,  and  the  angels  bore  her  spirit  away,  — 
sleeping  or  waking,  these  were  ever  before  my  eyes ! 
My  pen  lingers  while  I  write  of  her,  but  what  she  was 
no  pen  can  truly  describe  —  a  being  indeed,  — 

"  All  dipped 
In  angel  instincts,  breathing  paradise. 

Happy  he 

With  such  a  mother  ;  faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him." 

We  gave  to  our  place  the  name  of  Melrose  ;  not  from 
any  likeness  that  it  bore  to  Melrose  Abbey,  but  on  ac 
count  of  the  abundance  of  roses,  of  every  description, 
that  filled  our  greenhouses  and  were  scattered  over  the 
grounds. 


THE    FAIR.  65 

There  was  an  Episcopal  church  in  the  village,  which 
we  attended,  and  May  and  I  contributed  our  services  as 
Sunday  school  teachers.  In  our  little  classes  we  took 
the  deepest  interest.  Then  there  were  two  fairs,  for 
the  benefit  of  this  church,  held  upon  the  magnificent 

grounds  of  Mr.  C n.  My  sisters  presided  at  a 

table  filled  with  our  own  work.  Little  Julia  sold  flow 
ers  and  recited  poems  —  I  was  constituted  a  fortune 
teller.  They  erected  for  me  a  bower  formed  of  branches 
of  evergreens.  Over  the  entrance,  in  letters  made  of 
flowers,  were  the  words,  "  Temple  of  Fate"  Within 
was  a  large  wheel,  of  blue  and  gold,  covered  with  num 
bers.  Beside  the  wheel,  somewhat  fantastically  dressed, 
I  stood,  with  a  golden  wand  in  one  hand  and  the  "  Book 
of  Fate "  in  the  other.  I  had  written  the  fortunes  in 
verse,  and  adapted  them  to  the  histories  of  certain  per 
sons,  who,  I  was  sure,  would  be  present.  By  pressing 
the  wand  skilfully  upon  the  wheel,  as  it  turned,  I  could 
stop  it  at  what  number  I  pleased ;  and  thus  I  created 
great  amusement  by  the  "  happy  hits "  directed  at 
those  who  sought  to  learn  their  destiny.  The  "  Temple 
of  Fate "  proved  highly  productive  to  the  interests  of 
the  church. 

My  fondness  for  rhyming  continued  undiminished. 
I  was  tired  of  fugitive  pieces,  and  determined  to  write  a 
poem  of  some  length.  What  subject  should  I  choose  ? 
I  was  reading  with  great  avidity  Schlegel's  "  Lectures 
on  Literature."  Schlegel  remarks  that  "  Poetry's  ori 
ginal  end  and  highest  grade  he  believes  to  be  epic  "  —  I 
would  write  an  epic  poem !  I  chose  a  subject  from 
Spanish  history,  and  was  soon  thoroughly  engrossed 
with  my  new,  and  to  me  delightful,  occupation.  In  the 
evenings,  I  amused  myself  by  reading  aloud  to  Mr. 
5 


66       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Mowatt  what  I  had  composed  in  the  morning.  I  wrote 
with  juvenile  rapidity,  and  had  not  yet  learned  the 
great  "art  of  Hotting"  In  a  few  months  the  poem 
was  completed.  It  was  entitled,  "  Pelayo,  or  the  Cav 
ern  of  Covadonga  —  a  Poetical  Romance  in  Five  Can 
tos,  founded  on  the  History  of  the  first  King  of  Astu- 
rias." 

Mr.  Mowatt,  of  course,  listened  with  partial  ears,  and 
I  believe  I  had  a  way  of  making  versification  sound 
more  musical  than  it  was  —  of  creating  a  sense,  through 
certain  modulations  of  voice,  which  did  not  exist  in  the 
words  themselves.  He  proposed  that  "  Pelayo  "  should 
foe  published.  The  idea  startled  me.  I  was  not  then 
.ambitious.  I  had  thought  more  of  feeding  birds  and 
taming  pigeons  than  of  winning  fame.  I  loved  to  think 
that  I  possessed  a  household  harp  that  would  make 
pleasant  music  for  the  ears  of  kindred  and  friends ;  but 
I  shrank  from  playing  my  part  of  imperfect  musician 
before  the  world.  Yet  I  was  easily  persuaded.  The 
authorship  of  Pelayo  was  to  be  kept  a  profound  secret. 
I  assumed  the  name  of  "Isabel,"  and  the  book  was 
published  by  the  Harpers. 

Its  existence  was  as  ephemeral  as  it  deserved  to  be. 
As  readily  exterminated  by  the  critics  as  a  butterfly 
could  be  crushed,  it  died  an  easy  death.  I  alone  suf 
fered  in  its  expiring  agonies.  The  roseate  veil  of  ma 
ternal  love  which  shrouds  the  eyes  of  most  young 
writers,  when  they  look  at  their  own  productions,  had 
not  yet  fallen  from  mine.  I  considered  myself  a  very 
injured  individual  —  a  sort  of  literary  martyr  —  and  I 
assumed  a  Spartan  courage  in  bearing  my  wrongs, 
which  must  have  been  particularly  ridiculous. 

Years   afterwards  I  found  an  old  copy  of  Pelayo, 


PELATO.  67 

and  read  a  few  lines.  Very  few  they  were,  for  I  closed 
the  book  in  mortified  astonishment  that  I  should  ever 
have  written  such  unmitigated  stuff.  Nor  could  I  com 
prehend  how  the  blindest  affection  could  have  allowed 
me  to  render  it  public. 

The  preface  to  Pelayo  contained  a  bombastic  threat- 
that  I  would  reply  to  any  attacks  made  upon  the  book. 
I  hurled  a  Liliputian  defiance  at  the  giant  critics. 
They  were  forewarned  that  I  was  prepared  to  defend 
my  poetical  offspring  to  the  death.  Byron's  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Keviewers  was  probably  running  in 
my  head ;  for,  from  the  ashes  of  Pelayo  sprang  up  a 
satire,  (I  use  the  word  because  it  is  on  the  titlepage,) 
entitled  "  Reviewers  Reviewed."  The  title  is  suffi 
ciently  explanatory  in  setting  forth  the  object  of  the 
book.  The  following  extract  from  the  preface  betrays 
the  impetuous  spirit  in  which  it  was  written :  — 

"  Pelayo,  the  first  rude  effusion  of  a  warm,  though 
untutored  heart,  was  presented  to  the  public  with  all 
that  rainbow  hope,  that  unmingled  buoyancy,  which 
ever  attends  the  joyous  visions  of  expectant  youth.  I 
studied  not  the  science  of  poetry  —  I  heeded  not  its 
rules ;  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  I  only  felt 
that  Nature  formed  her  poets  before  Nature's  scorners 
shackled  them  with  their  modern  trammels.  Little  did 
I  dream,  while  tracing  the  carelessly  light-toned  preface 
of  Pelayo  of  that  literary  ordeal  to  which  it  was 
offered  ;  and  in  some  unfortunate  allusion  to  critics,  (my 
imagination  scarcely  painting  them  as  other  than  ideal 
beings.)  I  naturally  gave  vent  to  the  playful  exuberance 
of  spirit  which  might  have  amused  a  circle  of  my  own 
friends.  But  if  I  hoped  to  find  amongst  the  '  wrath- 
dispensing  race '  a  friend,  —  if  I  thought  to  ward  off,  or 


68        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

beguile,  the  tempestuous  hurricane  of  critic  censure, — 
I  but  experienced  the  same  disappointment  thousands 
have  before  encountered  —  thousands  must  meet  again. 

"The  most  inoffensive  badinage  was  interpreted  into 
1  scorn,'  and  excuses  for  my  conscious  deficiency  trans 
lated  into  '  self-esteem.'  Had  a  just,  even  though  severe, 
criticism  been  awarded  me  —  had  they  quoted  one  line 
of  mine,  and  displayed  its  excessive  faultiness  - —  had 
they  used  my  own  language,  and  proved  its  absurdity  — 
had  they  shown  how  egregiously  false  was  my  versifica 
tion,  how  imperfect  my  rhymes,  or  from  whence  my 
ideas  were  stolen,  (for  of  all  these  'negligences  and 
ignorances '  they  bestowed  on  me  a  bountiful  share,)  I 
would  have  submitted,  ay,  thankfully,  to  the  scourge 
which  brought  improvement  with  its  sting ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  they  gathered  from  the  preface  that  Pelayo 
was  written  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen — -that  proper 
attention  had  not  been  devoted  to  its  revision  —  and 
that  I,  myself,  was  conscious  of  its  innumerable  defects  ; 
and,  without  further  examination,  they  made  the  above 
sweeping  allegations.  I  do  not,  cannot,  deny  their 
truth  ;  I  am  at  variance  only  with  the  spirit  that  dic 
tated  them,  and  their  want  of  demonstrative  proof. 

"Another  objection  was  urged  against  Pelayo, 
which,  not  from  me  alone,  but  from  the  lips  and  soul  of 
every  patriotic  American,  demands  reply  ;  namely,  the 
extreme  folly  of  publishing  poetry  when  its  age  was  on 
the  wane.  In  the  old  world,  where  the  Muse's  glory 
has  reached  its  meridian  height,  her  power  may  well 
decline.  But  are  not  we  of  the  new  world  ?  and  shines 
she  here,  or  has  she  ever  shone,  in  full  maturity  and 
splendor,  arrayed  in  laurels  from  which  time  has 
plucked  no  leaf?  How  revolting  to  our  national  pride 


REVIEWERS    REVIEWED.  69 

how  humiliating,  to  believe  that  America  should  only 
produce  a  sickly  poetic  fire,  expiring  at  its  birth  !  Can 
poetry  be  on  the  wane  while  such  men  as  Halleck  and 
Bryant  are  in  their  prime  ?  Though  its  infant  pinions 
yet  are  weak,  may  they  not  one  day  soar  beyond  even 
proud  Albion's  constellated  host  of  bards  ?  " 

One  word  in  extenuation  of  the  above  extract  —  I 
was  hardly  eighteen  when  it  was  published. 

"  Reviewers  Reviewed"  attracted  some  attention. 
The  book  had  a  larger  sale  than  Pelayo,  and  was  now 
and  then  favorably  noticed,  probably  through  the  sym 
pathy  of  some  critic  who  had  himself  been  lashed  by  his 
contemporaries.  I  wrote  no  more  under  the  signature 
of  "  Isabel."  My  greatest  desire  now  was  to  preserve 
my  incognita.  I  did  not  suppose  it  possible  for  the  day 
ever  to  come  when  I  should  confess  with  perfect  sang 
froid  the  "youthful  indiscretion"  of  perpetrating 
such  books  as  Pelayo  and  Reviewers  Reviewed.  As 
a  child  weeps  over  the  fall  of  its  card  houses,  so  I 
mourned  over  the  demolition  of  my  first  poetic  castles, 
but  cherishing  the  consolatory  hope  that  mansions  of 
after  years  would  have  surer  foundation. 

We  still  resided  at  Melrose.  Occasionally  I  visited 
my  family  and  friends  in  New  York.  Xow  and  then 
we  attended  the  theatre  and  other  places  of  amuse 
ment,  but  my  principal  delight  was  in  receiving  guestsv 
at  home.  We  gave  numerous  fetes,  but  never  mere 
dancing  parties.  They  were  always  either  of  a  poetic, 
musical,  or  dramatic  character.  One  of  these,  and  the 
most  worthy  of  mention,  was  in  celebration  of  my  sev 
enteenth  birthday.  Four  of  my  friends  had  offered  to 
write  me  birthday  poems,  and  recite  them  in  the  even 
ing,  after  our  guests  were  assembled.  Without  hint- 


70       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

ing  my  intention,  I  determined  to  surprise  them  with 
versified  replies ;  though,  of  course,  I  could  only  guess 
at  the  subject  matter  of  their  effusions.  I  passed  a 
happy  day  in  decking  the  house  with  garlands,  and  rob 
bing  our  own  and  our  neighbors'  greenhouses  of  all  the 
flowers  that  they  could  yield.  In  a  little  rustic  basket, 
covered  with  geranium  leaves,  lay  four  exquisite  bou 
quets.  To  each  bouquet  was  attached  a  tiny  scroll. 
These  were  designed  for  the  four  poets.  The  scrolls 
contained  the  verses  addressed  to  the  different  parties. 

Evening  brought  a  merry  throng  of  guests.  After 
refreshments,  and  some  exquisite  music  from  a  friend 
who  never  failed  me,  an  arm  chair  was  drawn  into  the 

centre  of  the  room  by  Mr.  L n,  the  chief  of  my 

birthday  poets.  He  advanced  to  lead  me  to  my  tempo 
rary  throne ;  but,  declining  his  hand,  I  stole  out  of  the 
room,  and,  before  he  had  recovered  from  his  surprise  at 
the  apparent  rudeness,  returned  with  my  basket  of 
bouquets.  I  took  the  vacant  seat.  The  four  minstrels 

gathered   around   me,   and    Mr.    L n    commenced 

reciting  a  very  beautiful,  original  poem,  which  was  lis 
tened  to  with  breathless  attention.  At  the  line,  — 

"And  thus  we  crown  thee,  Cora,  queen,"  — 

he  drew  forth  a  concealed  wreath  of  natural  flowers, 
made  in  the  form  of  a  regal  crown,  and  placed  it  on  my 
head.  For  this  coronation  I  was  quite  unprepared. 
When  he  ceased  to  speak,  the  applause  and  the  con 
gratulations  of  the  company  expressed  their  delight. 

Ungracious  as  it  seemed,  I  sat  perfectly  still  until 
silence  was  restored;  then,  selecting  the  bouquet  (or 
breast  knot,  rather)  which  I  had  prepared  for  him, 
uttered  my  thanks  in  verse,  and  presented  the  flowers. 


MY   SEVENTEENTH   BIRTHDAY.  71 

The  general  surprise  may  be  well  imagined.  The  three 
poetesses  then  addressed  me  in  turn  ;  and,  as  each  one 
finished,  I  replied,  presenting  the  bouquets  and  scrolls. 
The  rustic  basket  was  not  yet  quite  emptied;  there 
remained  another  paper  of  plain  white,  folded  like  a 
letter. 

"  Is  that  for  me ? "  "Is  that  for  me ? "  asked  many 
an  eager  voice,  as  I  broke  the  seal  and  prepared  to 
read.  When  the  curiosity  of  the  company  had  reached 
its  highest  pitch,  I  read  aloud  the  name  of  the  one  per 
son  present  who,  I  was  sure,  least  expected  that  he  had 
been  made  the  subject  of  a  poem  —  a  plain,  kind- 
hearted,  merry  old  gentleman  of  the  ancient  school  — 
the  oldest,  truest,  most  attached  friend  of  Mr.  Mowatt. 
How  he  started  from  his  seat  when  he  heard  the  words 
«To  J II d"! 

One  might  have  thought  a  leaden  and  not  a  "  paper 
bullet "  had  entered  his  ears.  The  poem  was  read,  and 
presented,  and  praised,  and  long  life  was  wished  the 
queen  and  many  such  another  birthday.  The  music 
recommenced,  and  we 

"  Chased  the  rosy  hours  with  flying  feet." 

So  passed  my  seventeenth  birthday. 

Almost  every  week,  my  sister  May  and  I,  with  the 
assistance  of  little  Julia,  who  made  us  frequent  visits, 
got  up  some  rural  entertainment,  principally  for  our 
own  amusement  and  that  of  Mr.  Mowatt,  who  invited 
his  friends  or  not,  just  as  he  felt  disposed.  Very  often 
he  formed  our  sole  audience.  We  dignified  these  enter 
tainments  by  the  name  of  "  concerts,"  and  always  had 
written  programmes  of  the  performance.  The  songs 
were  intermingled  with  recitations  and  scenes  from 


72  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF  AN   ACTRESS. 

tragedies.  Music  was  one  of  oar  chief  studies ;  but, 
with  the  fullest  appreciation  of  its  beauties,  we  were 
devoid  of  any  decided  musical  talent.  I  except  little 
Julia",  who  had  naturally  a  good  ear  and  sweet  voice. 
I  also  possessed  a  voice  which  my  teachers  pronounced 
more  than  ordinarily  fine ;  but  I  had  a  faulty  ear,  and 
the  slightest  trepidation  made  me  sing  false.  For  years 
I  labored  to  conquer  this  defect,  but  I  never  could  learn 
to  sing  before  strangers  to  my  own  satisfaction  —  per 
haps  I  should  add,  to  theirs ! 

J  Besides  our  weekly  (burlesque)  concerts,  we  fre 
quently  prepared  exhibitions  of  tableaux  vivants  for 
our  friends,  which  were  eminently  successful.  Then 
we  several  times  enacted,  for  different  assemblages  of 
guests,  an  original  play.  This  was  my  first  positive- 
attempt  as  a  dramatist.  It  was  called 

"THE  GYPSY  WANDERER, 

OR 

THE  STOLEN  CHILD. 
An  Operetta. 

DEDICATED   TO    MY   SISTER   JULIA." 

The  play  —  or  dramatic  sketch  —  was  written  in  blank 
verse,  and  interspersed  with  numerous  songs.  Little 
Julia  was,  of  course,  the  heroine.  As  our  corps  drama- 
tique  consisted  of  but  three,  it  required  some  ingenuity 
to  invent  a  play  the  interest  of  which  should  be  sus 
tained  by  three  characters.  The  plot  was  very  simple, 
and  yet  proved  effective  in  acting.  I  personated  "  Lady 
Ivon,"  a  broken-hearted  young  widow,  whose  infant 
child  had  been  stolen  some  years  previously  by  gypsies. 
My  sister  May  enacted  "  Lucille,"  the  neice  and  con 


THE    GYPSY   WANDERER.  73 

fidant  of  Lady  Ivon.  Little  Julia  was  "  Florette," 
the  stolen  child.  The  scene  opens  with  Lady  Ivon  and 
Lucille.  Lucille  induces  Lady  Ivon  to  relate  the  his 
tory  of  her  sorrows,  through  which  means  the  audience 
is  of  course  apprised  of  them.  Suddenly  their  conver 
sation  is  interrupted  by  the  voice  of  a  gypsy  child 
singing  without,  who  begs  for  charity  in  her  song.  Lu 
cille  desires  to  turn  her  from  the  doors,  on  account  of 
her  obnoxious  race.  Lady  Ivon  objects.  The  little 
Florette  enters,  dressed  as  a  gypsy,  with  a  bundle  of 
small  brooms  slung  over  her  shoulders,  a  bunch  of  lav 
ender  in  one  hand,  and  a  basket  of  flowers  in  the  other. 
The  ladies  question  her,  and  she  answers  with  snatches 
of  old  ballads ;  now  with 

"  Over  the  mountain  and  over  the  moor, 

Hungry  and  weary,  I  wander  forlorn  ; 
My  father  is  dead,  and  my  mother  is  poor, 
And  I  mourn  for  the  days  that  will  never  return  ; " 

then  with  "  Buy  a  broom,"  presenting  her  tiny 
brooms ;  or  with  u  Come,  buy  my  lavender,"  distributing 
her  lavender. 

Lady  Ivon,  of  course,  traces  a  likeness  between  this 
child  and  the  one  she  lost,  and  is  greatly  agitated.  The 
little  Florette  makes  known  all  she  can  remember  of 
herself,  and  Lucille  discovers  a  mystical  circlet  bound 
over  her  arm.  Florette  entreats  that  this  may  not  be 
removed ;  it  is  a  charm  placed  there  by  a  gypsy  proph 
etess  of  her  tribe,  and  she  has  been  warned  that  evil 
would  befall  her  should  it  ever  be  loosened.  Of  course, 
her  prayers  are  unheeded  —  the  band  is  hastily  torn 
away.  It  concealed  a  natural  mark,  by  means  of  which 
Lady  Ivon  recognizes  her  child,  and  the  dramatic  sketch 


74       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

ends  in  a  tableau.     Its  representation  occupied  an  hour 
and  a  half. 

About  this  pariod  I  began  to  write  fugitive  pieces, 
which  were  published  in  various  magazines,  under  the 
signature  of  "  Cora."  The  first  to  which  I  allowed  this, 
my  own  name,  to  be  attached,  was  a  bridal  address  to 
my  sister  Emma.  When  the  bride  and  bridegroom, 
after  the  ceremony,  returned  from  church  to  our  father's 
house,  little  Julia  came  forward  and  greeted  them  with 
this  address.  Her  delivery,  and  not  the  poem  itself, 

produced  a  deep  impression.     Dr.  H ks,  who  had 

officiated,  was  much  moved,  and  his  were  not  the  only 
eyes  "  unused  to  weep  "  that  found  themselves  involun 
tarily  moistened  by  the  pathetic  tones  and  earnest  de 
livery  of  a  child  of  eight  years  old.  While  my  little 
pupil  was  speaking,  I  scanned  the  countenances  of  those 
around,  and  what  I  read  there  gave  me  more  intense 
delight  than  did  ever,  in  after  years,  the  most  enthusi 
astic  applause  that  pealed  in  my  ears. 
J  My  health  had  been  for  some  time  failing.  I  was  no 
longer  allowed  to  study ;  I  was  forbidden  to  write. 
Physicians  pronounced  me  consumptive,  and  recom 
mended  a  sea  voyage.  My  newly-married  sister  and 
her  husband  were  about  to  visit  Europe.  It  was  ar 
ranged  that  I,  and  an  aunt  to  whom  I  was  warmly 
attached,  should  accompany  them.  Mr.  Mowatt's  pro 
fessional  engagements  prevented  his  leaving  New  York. 

The  first  parting  from  home,  and  the  loved  ones  left 
behind,  was  naturally  a  severe  trial.  Had  I  been  less 
seriously  indisposed,  I  should  have  rebelled  at  the  ban 
ishment.  But  excessive  weakness  enabled  me  to  bid 
farewell  with  tearless  eyes,  and  a  sensation  of  icy  calm 
ness,  which  even  the  passionate  grief  of  my  beloved 


DEPARTURE    FOR    EUROPE.  75 

companion,  my  sweet  sister  May,  could  not  disturb. 
In  a  poem,  (written  in  the  third  person,)  composed  on 
board  of  ship,  descriptive  of  the  parting,  the  following 
lines  occur  in  allusion  to  this  sister.  They  portray  the 
closeness  of  our  union :  — 

She,  for  many  moons,  had  been 
The  loved  companion  of  her  lonely  hours. 
They  dwelt  together  —  from  the  selfsame  page 
Had  read  —  laughed  gayly  o'er  the  same  light  tales, 
Sang  the  same  songs,  or  strove,  perchance,  to  sing  — 
For  each  had  more  of  "  music  in  her  soul," 
And  harmony  in  her  love,  than  melody 
Upon' her  lips.    Arm  softly  linked  in  arm, 
Each  sunny  morn  had  they  strolled  loving  forth 
To  take  unmarked  their  pleasant  rambles  through 
The  little  village  where  the  elder  dwelt, 
And  where  the  younger  felt  her  home  to  be. 

"We  sailed  in  the  ship  Roscius,  under  the  command 
of  Captain  Collins.  I  remained  very  ill  for  the  first 
two  weeks,  but,  before  the  voyage  was  completed,  began 
to  make  rapid  strides  towards  health.  My  cough  had 
nearly  disappeared,  and  I  was  more  free  from  suffering 
than  I  had  been  for  months  previous.  We  reached 
Liverpool  in  three  weeks,  and  hastened  to  London. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Journal  of  a  Week  passed  in  London.  —  Olympic  Theatre.  —  Madame 
Vestris.  —  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  —  The  Toicer.  —  The  Tunnel.  — 
Italian  Opera. — Persiani.  —  Coliseum.  —  Zoological  Gardens.  — 
Hyde  Park.  —  Madame  Tussaud's.  —  St.  James's  Theatre.  — 
House  of  Lords.  — Westminster.  —  British  Museum.  —  Kensington 
Gardens.  —  Richmond.  —  Standing  "in  tcait"  for  the  Queen. — 
Departure  from  London. 

WE  spent  but  a  week  —  one  delightful  week  —  in 
London.  How  little  I  then  thought  that  it  would  be 
my  lot  to  return  there  to  pass  years !  —  to  return,  no 
longer  the  thoughtless,  happy  girl,  passing  unnoticed  in 
the  crowd,  and  enjoying  every  moment  of  her  exist 
ence,  but  the  grief-tried  woman, —  standing  where  all 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her, —  with  duties,  cares,  profes 
sional  responsibilities,  and  the  lives  of  others  bound  up 
in  hers.  My  glowing  impressions  of  that  first  week  in 
London,  are  conveyed  in  the  following  hasty  journal, 
addressed  to  Mr.  Mowatt :  — 

"ONE  WEEK  IN  LONDON. 

"  We  arrived  late  on  Thursday  evening,  wearied  out 
with  our  eleven  hours'  journey  from  Liverpool ;  but, 
dashing  along  the  smooth  roads,  after  we  had  left  the 
train,  sleep  was  soon  banished  from  our  drooping  eye 
lids.  The  gaslights  shed  around  us  a  flood  of  radiance, 
which  gave  the  city  the  appearance  of  an  illumination, 

(7G) 


LONDON.  77 

and  every  object  was  as  distinctly  visible  as  at  midday. 
That  freshness  of  feeling  which  belongs  to  the  inexperi 
enced  traveller  imparted  a  zest  to  our  slightest  enjoy 
ments.  Trivial  objects,  which  would  have  been  glanced 
at  unheeded  by  the  more  sophisticated,  called  forth  from 
us  exclamations  of  wondering  astonishment. 

';  That  we  might  present  a  somewhat  more  civilized 
appearance  in  this  land  of  splendor  and  gayety,  we  de 
voted  Friday  to  shopping*.  A  private  carriage  was 

ordered,  and,  with  .what  our  friend  J.  H d  would 

call  i  very  wide-awake '  expressions  of  countenance,  we 
set  out  on  our  first  drive.  There  were  so  many  attrac 
tions  on  every  side,  that  I,  at  least,  soon  became  too 

bewildered  to  know  which  way  to  turn.  Aunt  

would  cry,  «  Look,  look,  look  here ! '  putting  her  head 
out  of  one  window  of  the  carriage,  while  Emma  ejac 
ulated,  '  Quick,  quick,  or  you  will  miss  seeing  this  ! '  and 
forced  her  slight  figure  half  out  of  the  other.  While  I 
was  trying  to  accomplish  the  impossibility  of  *  looking 
both  ways  at  once,'  I  part  of  the  time  saw  nothing. 

*'  Every  moment  our  attention  was  riveted  by  some 
thing  new.  The  wide  and  cleanly  streets,  through 
which  six  carriages  not  unfrequently  flew  by  abreast  — 
the  velocity  with  which  the  gayly-colored  'flys'  and 
*  cabs  '  (so  unlike  any  of  our  vehicles  at  home)  dashed 
along  the  macadamized  roads  —  the  liveried  coachmen 
and  footmen,  who  apparently  form  one  third  of  the  pop 
ulace,  and,  when  not  behind  their  masters'  carriages, 
lounge  idly  about  the  doorsteps  —  the  palace-like  shops, 
magnificent  without  and  sumptuous  within  —  rooms  de 
voted  to  millinery  and  mantuamaking,  furnished  as  gor 
geously  and  as  tastefully  as  drawing  rooms  at  home  — 
every  thing  in  turn  awakened  our  astonishment  and 


78       AUTOBIOGKAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

admiration.  We  could  hardly  say  with  what  we  were 
most  charmed,  unless  it  was  the  splendid  buildings  with 
which  London  is  as  thickly  studded  as  the  queen's  crown 
with  jewels. 

"  A  particular  delight  to  me  were  the  little  sparrows 
and  swallows,  which,  in  spite  of  all  this  pomp  and 
splendor,  hopped  tamely  about  the  streets,  chirping 
most  musically  as  they  gathered  straws  or  threads  to 
build  their  nests  with  in  the  roofs  of  the  houses.  I 
amused  myself  by  flinging  bits  of  worsted  out  of.  the 
window,  and  watching  the  fearless  little  creatures  as 
they  alighted,  almost  at  the  feet  of  some  passer  by,  to 
pick  up  these  treasures. 

"  The  attendance  in  London  is  excellent.  You  are 
always  at  liberty  to  fancy  yourself  a  princess,  for  you 
are  treated  as  one ;  but  you  must  pay  as  princesses  do, 
or  are  supposed  to  do.  Before  your  coachman  can 
jump  from  his  seat,  the  door  is  opened  by  some  little 
rogue,  the  steps  let  down,  and  his  hat  touched  signifi 
cantly.  If  you  take  no  notice  of  this,  he  plainly  asks 
you  to  spare  something  for  the  drinking  of  your  health. 
His  manner  very  markedly  implies  that  thus  alone  can 
its  preservation  be  secured.  Three  or  four  waiters  (in 
tights  and  pumps)  attend  you  to  your  carriage ;  but  you 
are  expected  to  slip  some  silver  in  their  hands  for  hand 
ing  you  in,  or  even  picking  up  your  handkerchief.  The 
very  play  bills  at  the  theatres  are  sold  by  men  who  run 
beside  your  carriage,  and  crowd  around  to  force  them 
upon  you  before  you  alight.  Every  body  is  feed,  and 
for  the  slightest  service  you  must  cross  the  doer's  hand 
with  silver. 

"  We  spent  the  whole  of  Friday  in  making  purchases 
and  strolling  through  bazaars  and  shops.  I  must  give 


MADAME    VESTRIS.  79 

you  some  idea  of  the  expedition  of  London  dressmakers. 
At  five  o'clock  we  drove  to  a  court  dressmaker,  that  I 
might  be  measured  for  a  dress  to  be  worn  the  next  even 
ing  at  the  opera.  In  eight  minutes  (three  of  which 
were  passed  in  astonishment  at  my  giving  my  name  as 
a  married  woman)  I  was  fitted  and  in  the  carriage  again ! 
The  dress  came  home  the  next  morning,  and  became  me 
a  merveille. 

"  Friday  evening  we  visited  the  Olympic  Theatre,  \f 
With  Madame  Vestris  we  were  all  of  us  charmed.  I 
now  understood  why  she  was  not  appreciated  in  Amer 
ica.  This  is  her  sphere  —  she  is  the  planet  round  which 
her  satellites  move.  Drawing  light  from  her,  they  shine 
themselves,  and  thus  add  to  her  lustre.  She  is  nothing 
alone  —  she  must  have  a  certain  entourage  to  develop 
and  set  forth  her  powers.  One  could  discern  a  woman's 
taste  and  woman's  hand  in  all  the  most  minute  arrange 
ments  of  this  theatre.  There  was  just  enough  light  to 
give  proper  effect ;  the  scenery  and  dresses  were  histor 
ically  appropriate  ;  every  character  of  the  play,  even 
down  to  the  postilions  and  waiters,  was  well  sustained. 
The  illusion  was  thus  rendered  perfect. 

"The  entertainment  consisted  of  a  series  of  light 
pieces,  by  turns  serious  or  comic,  each  (like  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  tales)  with  its  moral,  and  filled  with  patriotic 
and  loyal  sentiments,  which  drew  down  thunders  of 
applause  from  the  attentive  audience.  Madame  Ves 
tris  herself  sang  a  little  ballad,  commencing  l  Here's  a 
health  to  her  majesty,'  in  the  most  bewitching  manner. 
A  large  portion  of  the  audience  stood  while  she  was 
singing,  (I  presume  in  token  of  their  loyalty,)  and  she 
was  again  and  again  encored.  The  theatre  is  very 
small,  but  a  perfect  bijou.  The  only  light  (excepting 


80        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

those  on  the  stage)  proceeds  from  one  large  chandelier 
suspended  from  the  ceiling.  Here,  as  at  the  entrance 
of  every  other  place  of  public  amusement,  her  majesty's 
officers  are  stationed,  and  prevent  disturbance. 

"  On  Saturday  morning  we  drove  around  Somerset 
Square,  a  magnificent  edifice,  formerly  a  palace,  but 
now  degenerated  into  law  offices.  When  the  building 
was  in  progress,  a  watch  fell  from  the  pocket  of  a  mason 
on  the  roof,  and  lodged  between  two  stones  near  the 
third  story  window,  and  yet  remains  distinctly  visible, 
but  beyond  reach. 

"  We  then  wended  our  way  to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral, 
second  only  to  St.  Peter's  at  Rome.  Where  shall  I 
find  words  to  describe  to  you  this  stupendous  pile  ?  " 

Here  followed  a  long  account,  which  I  omit  —  St. 
Paul's  has  been  so  frequently  and  so  much  more  ably 
described. 

"  From  the  Cathedral  we  drove  to  the  Tower.  With 
the  latter  I  was  greatly  disappointed  —  perhaps  because 
the  impressions  left  by  the  former  were  still  so  fresh 
upon  my  mind.  I  thought  the  Tower  bore  a  strong  re 
semblance  to  some  vast  museum.  We  were  conducted 
about  by  an  attendant  warden  in  the  queen's  livery. 
There  was  a  golden  crown,  and  the  letters  V.  R.,  (Vic 
toria  Regina,)  embroidered  on  the  back  of  his  coat. 
He  made  his  explanatory  remarks  in  the  set  phrase 
and  monotonous  tone  of  an  automaton. 

"  This  Tower  was  formerly  a  royal  residence,  but, 
since  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  has  been  occupied  as  a 
state  prison,  royal  arsenal,  and  place  of  safety  for  the 
jewels  of  the  crown. 

"  From  the  Tower  we  drove  to  the  Tunnel.  I  should 
like  an  estimate  to  be  made  of  the  number  of  steps 


ITALIAN    OPERA.  81 

which  we  ascended  and  descended  that  day.  It  could 
hardly  fall  short  of  a  thousand,  —  a  sort  of  exercise  which 
gives  one  a  capital  idea  of  the  treadmill.  You  are  aware 
that  the  Tunnel  is  a  capacious  roadway,  excavated  under 
the  Thames ;  the  descent  is  long  and  wearisome.  The 
Tunnel  is  now  eight  hundred  and  seventy  feet  in  length, 
and  its  entire  length  is  to  be  one  thousand  three  hundred 
feet.  The  river  has  several  times  broken  in,  and  much 
impeded  the  progress  of  the  work.  "SVe  had  no  time  to 
remain  here,  for  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  We  drove 
back  to  the  hotel,  dined  hastily,  and  then  made  our  toi 
lets  for  the  Italian  opera.  The  opera  company  only 
play  twice  a  week.  Strange  to  say,  Saturday  is  the 
most  fashionable  night.  The  audience,  are  all  en  cos 
tume  de  l)al. 

"  The  opera  house  is  aoout  three  times  the  size  of  **/ 
our  Park  Theatre.  It  has  five  tiers  of  boxes  —  the 
audience  are  mostly  an  assemblage  of  nobility.  I  do 
not  quite  understand  how  it  is  that  their  boxes  can  be 
hired.  By  paying  a  sufficiently  exorbitant  price,  we 
obtained  the  Duchess  of  Grosvenor's  box  without  diffi 
culty.  The  queen  was  present ;  but  our  republican 
curiosity  was  not  gratified,  for  she  sat  directly  beneath 
our  loge. 

"  The  opera  was  Lucia  di  Lammermoor,  with  which 
you  are  very  familiar  ;  but  you  are  not  familiar  with 
the  almost  inspired  tones  of  Persiani,  that  charm  and 
electrify  her  audience  by  turns.  Her  mad  scene  was 
painfully  powerful  —  terribly  beautiful.  One  or  two 
of  the  airs  have  haunted  me  ever  since.  "We  have  ^ 
heard  no  such  voices  in  America  as  those  of  Tamburini 
and  Rubini. 

"  The  next  day,  being  Sunday,  was  indeed  a  day  of 


82        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

rest.  We  attended  St.  Martin's  Church.  Early  on 
Monday  morning,  we  started  anew  on  sightseeing  ex 
peditions.  Our  first  visit  was  to  the  Coliseum.  The 
panorama,  which  represents  a  view  of  London  from 
the  top  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  is  very  superb.  After 
spending  some  time  in  a  minute  examination,  we  were 
taken  up  to  the  top  of  the  Coliseum,  in  the  curious 
ascending  room  which  rises  from  story  to  story,  without 
any  perceptible  motion.  Afterwards  we  visited  the 
saloon,  where  there  are  many  exquisite  specimens  of 
sculpture,  then  the  conservatories,  the  Swiss  cot 
tage,  the  Alpine  glen,  the  waterworks,  and  the  gar 
dens.  In  the  Swiss  cottage  we  sat  upon  the  chair 
which  was  made  for  Queen  Adelaide  when  she  was 
about  to  visit  the  Coliseum  —  in  the  same  chair  Victo 
ria  has  also  reposed. 

"  Through  the  Zoological  Gardens  we  rambled  for 
nearly  four  hours,  and  were  forced  to  leave  without 
feeling  as  though  we  had  seen  all  that  was  worthy  of 
attention. 

"  From  the  gardens  we  drove  to  Hyde  Park,  to  see 
the  queen.  A  large  concourse  of  people  were  assem 
bled  at  the  gates  for  the  same  purpose.  We  were  dis 
appointed  in  seeing  her  majesty,  but  fully  repaid  by  the 
scene  itself.  I  believe  no  resort  in  London  affords  so 
excellent  an  opportunity  of  reviewing  the  fashionable 
world.  The  spacious  gravelled  roads  are  covered  with 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  mounted  on  magnificent  horses, 
and  followed  by  their  grooms.  Our  simplicity-loving 
eyes  were  almost  dazzled  by  the  fanciful  and  some 
times  fantastic  liveries,  and  the  rich  coloring  of  the 
gorgeous  equipages  that  roll  by  in  endless  succession. 
Many  of  these  carriages  were  of  two  different  hues 


MADAME   TUSSAUD'S.  83 

intermingled  —  others  of  the  most  delicate  pink,  blue, 
light  maroon,  and  I  have  seen  even  scarlet.  The  arms 
of  the  nobility  to  whom  they  belong  are  painted  on  the 
panel?,  and  their  crests  embroidered  in  gold  on  the  ham 
mer  cloth.  Some  of  the  coachmen  and  footmen  wore 
white  powdered  wigs  and  cocked  hats.  They  all  looked 
to  me  as  though  they  had  just  started  up  out  of  Cinder 
ella's  pumpkin. 

"  Opposite  the  central  arch  of  the  grand  entrance  to 
Hyde  Park  is  a  colossal  statue  of  .Achilles,  erected  by 
the  English  ladies  in  honor  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

'•  We  had  left  the  hotel  immediately  after  breakfast, 
but  only  returned  home  in  time  to  dine  by  candlelight. 
We  then  visited  Madame  Tussaud's  exhibition  of  wax 
figures,  and  spent  the  evening  in  promenading  through 
her  large  and  brilliantly-illuminated  saloon.  One  group 
of  statues  consisted  of  the  royal  family  and  other  cele 
brated  personages.  Victoria  is  represented  as  she  ap 
peared  at  her  coronation.  She  is  seated  on  a  throne  — 
the  crown  on  her  brow,  in  one  hand  the  sceptre,  and 
in  the  other  a  golden  ball.  The  Lord  Bishop  of  Can 
terbury  is  imploring  a  blessing  ;  Lord  Melbourne  hold 
ing  the  sword  of  state ;  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  his 
highness  the  Duke  of  Cambridge,  the  Duchess  of  Kent, 
and  other  members  of  the  nobility  are  grouped  around. 

"  In  the  midst  of  another  group  stands  the  lamented 
Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales.  Her  face  wears  an  ex 
pression  of  the  most  angelic  sweetness. 

"Another  group  is  composed  of  Mary,  Queen  of 
Scots,  refusing  to  sign  the  document  by  which  she 
renounces  her  crown  —  Baron  Ruthven,  in  a  ferocious 
attitude,  is  attempting  to  compel  her,  the  good  Sir  Robert 
Melville  endeavoring  to  appease  his  wrath,  and  a  ven- 


84       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

erable  monk  gazing  with  indignation  at  the  brutal  baron 
who  insults  his  mistress. 

"  Amongst  the  statues  were  those  of  Shakspeare,  By 
ron,  Scott,  Kemble,  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  Malibran.  One 
of  the  greatest  curiosities  is  the  figure  of  the  beautiful 
Madame  St.  Amaranth,  who  rejected  the  disgraceful 
solicitations  of  Robespierre,  and  thus  became  the  victim 
of  his  fury.  She  is  stretched  upon  a  couch  in  a  dying 
attitude.  Her  bosom  gently  heaves  to  and  fro  like  that 
of  an  expiring  person  ;  you  might  almost  fancy  that  you 
felt  her  breath.  Several  of  the  statues  move  their  heads 
so  naturally  that  we  at  first  mistook  them  for  human  be 
ings.  A  mistake  of  precisely  the  opposite  character 
occasioned  us  some  confusion  and  no  little  merriment. 
An  elderly  lady  was  seated  near  the  figure  of  Voltaire, 
intently  gazing  in  his  face.  I  placed  my  hand  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  said  to  Emma,  '  O,  look  at  this  one  ;  it 
is  capitally  executed ! '  The  supposed  statue  turned  its 
eyes  upon  me,  and  rose  up  to  a  terrible  height,  (as  I 
thought,)  with  an  annihilating  expression.  I  did  not 
sink  into  the  earth,  as  the  tall  gentlewoman  seemed 
to  imagine  that  I  was  bound  to  do ;  but  as  soon  as  I 
could  recover  from  a  sensation  of  half-frightened  sur 
prise,  I  hurriedly  begged  her  pardon.  She  swept  by  us 
without  a  word.  Who  could  have  helped  laughing  ? 

"  The  adjoining  room,  a  veritable  chamber  of  horrors, 
represents  the  interior  of  the  Bastile.  It  is  filled  with 
heads  of  persons  taken  after  their  execution.  The  first 
was  Marat,  who  was  put  to  death  by  Charlotte  Corday. 
Then  came  the  heads  of  Robespierre,  of  Stewart  and 
his  wife,  of  Barriere,  &c.,  all  of  them  taken  a  few  hours 
after  execution.  A  model  of  the  guillotine  completed 
this  most  detestable  exhibition.  You  probably  remem- 


WESTMINSTER.  85 

ber  that  the  fatal  instrument  was  invented  by  Mr.  Guil- 
lotin,  a  French  physician,  who  actually  died  of  grief 
caused  by  the  horrible  use  made  of  his  invention. 

"  Tuesday  it  stormed,  and  we  devoted  the  morning  to 
letter  writing.  In  the  afternoon  we  visited  the  National 
Historical  Gallery  and  Miss  Linwood's  exhibition.  In 
the  evening  we  attended  the  St.  James  Theatre.  The 
theatre  itself  was  worthy  of  all  admiration.  Not  so  the 
performance.  The  actors  were  monkeys  and  dogs.  I 
confess  that  even  the  novelty  of  the  exhibition  could  not 
lend  it  a  charm. 

"  Our  first  visit  on  Wednesday  was  to  the  new  House 
of  Lords ;  the  old  one  was  burned  in  the  late  fire.  "We 
saw  the  throne  which  Victoria  occupies  when  she  opens 
Parliament ;  sat  on  the  icoolsack  (and  a  very  comforta 
ble,  good-natured  sort  of  seat  it  is)  appropriated  to  the 
Lord  Chancellor,  and  examined  the  steps  where  the  Duke 
of  Essex  stumbled  on  approaching  the  queen. 

"From  the  House  of  Lords,  with  our  expectations 
raised  to  the  highest  pitch,  we  crossed  to  Westminster 
Abbey.  I  shall  not  even  attempt  a  description  of  what 
appears  to  me  indescribable.  I  will  only  tell  you  of  the 
monument  that  made  the  deepest  impression.  It  was  that 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Nightingale  in  the  chapel  of  St.  John. 
The  expiring  form  of  Lady  Nightingale  lies  in  the  arms 
of  her  agonized  husband,  while  '  grim-visaged  Death ' 
steals  from  beneath  a  tomb,  and  aims  his  unerring  dart 
at  the  bosom  of  the  dying  woman.  Her  husband  ex 
tends  one  arm  imploringly  to  the  king  of  terrors,  and 
with  the  other  folds  his  fragile  wife  to  the  bosom  which 
cannot  protect  her  from  that  one  foe. 

"  We  lingered  a  long  time  in  the  *  Poets'  Corner/ 
and  talked  of  the  illustrious  dead.  And  we  sat  on  the 


86        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

chair  in  which  her  majesty  and  preceding  sovereigns 
were  crowned. 

"  From  the  abbey  we  drove  to  the  celebrated  British 
Museum,  a  vast  receptacle  of  millions  of  wonders  both 
of  art  and  nature.  Here  the  rest  of  the  day  was  prof 
itably  consumed.  "We  had  only  time  to  take  a  short 
drive  through  Hyde  Park  before  dinner.  We  were 
too  much  fatigued  to  visit  any  place  of  amusement  in 
the  evening,  and  retired  early. 

"  Early  on  Thursday  morning  we  drove  to  Kensing 
ton  Gardens,  which  adjoin  Hyde  Park.  There  is  a 
lovely  quietude  about  these  beautiful  gardens,  which 
contrasts  strangely  with  their  noisy  and  more  fashion 
able  vicinity.  Kensington  Palace,  to  which  the  gar 
dens  are  attached,  was  the  former  residence  of  the 
Duchess  of  Kent  and  Princess  Victoria.  It  has  little 
pretensions  to  grandeur  —  is  built  of  old-fashioned 
looking  brick,  and  reared  with  neither  elegance  nor 
taste. 

"  From  the  gardens  we  drove  to  Richmond,  enchant 
ing  Richmond  !  Thomson's  Seasons  were  in  our  minds 
and  on  our  lips,  and  their  delightful  association  enhanced 
the  charm  of  every  prospect.  I  think  this  was  the  most 
agreeable  drive  I  have  ever  yet  taken.  We  all  de 
clared  that  there  was  no  place  we  cared  to  visit  after 
Richmond ;  and  there  we  spent  the  remainder  of  the 
day,  wandering  about  in  a  state  of  dreamy  delight,  and 
chiding  the  setting  sun  (which  we  viewed  from  Rich 
mond  Hill)  for  warning  us  to  return  homewards. 

"On  Friday  we  were  occupied  in  packing.  We 
were  to  leave  for  Hamburg  in  the  evening.  As  we 
stood  in  the  midst  of  an  army  of  trunks,  in  the  '  very 
heat  of  battle,'  —  a  battle  waged  against  the  impossi- 


STAJTDDfG   "IX   WAIT"  FOB   THE   QUEEX.          87 

bflity  of  making  them  contain  more  than  they  could 

hold, —  H entered  hastily  and  told  us   that  the 

queen  was  expected  to  visit  the  National  Gallery  of 
Paintings.  A  crowd  had  already  collected  at  a  short 
distance;  if  we  made  haste,  we  might  see  her.  Our 
toilets  were  rapidly  completed,  and  we  soon  formed  a 
portion  of  the  expectant  crowd.  For  an  hour  and  a 
half  we  stood  patiently  waiting,  listening  to  the  doubts 
expressed  by  some,  and  the  confident  assuror, 
others,  that  her  majesty  would  shortly  pass.  We  then 
walked  to  St.  James's  Square,  (more  than  a  mile  oft)  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  her  there.  Again  disappointed,  we 
returned  to  our  former  station;  but  after  remaining 
there  another  hour,  we  were  forced  to  return  to  the 
hotel  to  finish  our  packing.  The  queen  passed  three 
hours  afterwards. 

u  On  the  loveliest  moonlight  night  I  ever  beheld,  we 
bade  adieu  to  London,  with  the  earnest  hope  that  we 
might  one  day  return." 


CHAPTER  V. 

Hamburg.  —  Bremen.  —  American  Ladies  supposed  to  be  black.  — 
Incident  at  a  Dinner  Party.  —  Bridal  Address  translated  into  Ger 
man.  —  Usages  and  Manners  of  the  Northern  Germans.  —  Dinner 
Parties.  —  Funeral  Customs.  —  Betrothal  and  Bridal  Customs.  — 
Bremen  Cathedral.  —  Peculiarity  of  the  Vault.  —  Corpses  four 
Centuries  old  in  a  State  of  Preservation.  —  Robbing  the  Student  of 
a  Lock  of  Hair.  —  Frei  Markt.  —  Our  Housekeeping  in  Ger 
many.  —  Studies.  —  Arrival  of  Mr.  Mowatt.  —  His  long  Illness.  — 
Departure  for  Paris. 

TWENTY-FOUR  hours  after  our  departure  from  Lon 
don,  we  reached  Hamburg  by  steamboat.  Our  passage 
across  the  North  Sea  was  smooth  and  pleasant.  In 
Hamburg  we  remained  one  week,  visiting  all  places  of 
interest  and  of  public  amusement  within  our  reach. 
"We  were  so  constantly  "  on  the  wing  "  that  I  had  no 
leisure  to  keep  any  record  of  our  swallow-like  flights. 
From  Hamburg  we  proceeded  to  Bremen,  travelling 
part  of  the  way  by  schnell  post.  One  of  our  party, 
who  did  not  comprehend  German,  remarked  that  prob 
ably  schnell  post  meant  snail  post,  judging  from  the  slow 
and  tedious  mode  of  progression.  She  was  particularly 
indignant  when  the  swiftness  implied  by  the  word  schnett 
was  translated  to  her,  but  consoled  herself  with  the 
reflection  that  the  expression  was  probably  used  in 
irony. 

In  Bremen  resided  the  parents  and  relatives  of  our 
new  brother-in-law.  An  amusing  incident  took  place 
when  he  first  presented  to  them  his  young  wife.  A 

(88) 


AMERICAN  LADIES  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  BLACK.   89 

servant,  who  had  resided  some  time  in  his  father's  fam 
ily,  concealed  herself  behind  the  street  door  to  catch  the 
first  glimpse  of  my  sister.  During  the  tender  embraces 
with  which  she  was  welcomed  by  her  warmhearted 
relatives,  the  servant  could  not  see  her  face,  which  was 
shadowed  by  a  profusion  of  long,  dark  ringlets;  but 
when  the  greeting  was  over,  and  she  was  conducted  into 
the  drawing  room,  and  her  bonnet  removed,  the  girl  had 
a  full  view  of  her  countenance.  As  her  mistress  passed 
out  of  the  room,  she  rushed  to  her,  exclaiming  in  Ger 
man,  "  O,  she's  white  !  she's  not  Hack  —  only  her  hair. 

I  thought  Master  H had  married  an  American 

woman,  and  brought  you  home  a  Hack  daughter-in-law ! " 
More  intelligent  individuals  than  this  German  madchen 
were  possessed  with  the  belief  that  America  produced 
only  a  race  of  negroes. 

In  Bremen  our  time  passed  most  delightfully.  My 
sister  was  feted  and  courted  for  her  own  sake,  as  well  as 
on  account  of  her  husband's  position  as  a  popular  and 
influential  merchant.  My  aunt  and  I  shared  in  the 
hospitalities  offered  to  them. 

At  the  first  large  dinner  party  given  to  my  brother 
and  sister,  when  the  healths  were  proposed,  a  gentleman 
rose  and  recited  to  them  a  poem  in  German.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  applause  —  their  glasses  were 
touched  by  all  present,  and  their  healths  drunk.  Im 
mediately  afterwards  the  health  of  the  "  dichterin " 
(poetess)  was  offered.  What  was  my  astonishment 
when  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  me  !  I  could  only  look 
with  a  questioning  stare  into  the  face  of  the  gentleman 
who,  having  proposed  the  health,  addressed  me  in  a 
then  unknown  tongue.  My  surprise  and  confusion  were 
not  lessened  when  I  perceived  a  host  of  outstretched 


90        AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

hands,  every  one  holding  a  wine  glass  towards  me. 
I  looked  at  the  challenging  wine  glasses  in  amaze 
ment  —  then  at  my  own,  which  I  did  not  attempt  to  lift 
to  meet  theirs  —  then  at  my  brother-in-law,  petitioning 
in  dumb  show  that  he  would  explain  what  was  expected 
of  me.  He  was  seated  at  some  distance,  but  made  a 
sign  for  me  to  touch  my  glass  to  the  offered  glasses.  I 
did  so,  and  the  health  of  the  "  dichterin "  was  drunk. 
I  joined  in,  and  stupidly  drank  my  own  health,  for  I 
had  not  then  discovered  that  I  was  the  "  dichterin." 

A  gentleman  at  my  side,  who  could  only  speak  a  few 
words  of  English,  enlightened  me  by  saying,  "  Dich 
terin,  dat  is  you  —  you  pretty  poem  write  your  sister  — 
Mr.  B make  German  of." 

The  Bridal  Address  which  was  recited  at  my  sister's 
nuptials  had  been  translated  into  German  without  her 
knowledge  or  mine.  These  were  the  verses  addressed 
to  her  when  her  health  was  proposed.  Our  kind  Ger 
man  friends  were  very  enthusiastic  in  regard  to  the 
poem,  for  which  I  was  probably  indebted  to  the  trans 
lator.  As  for  the  original,  it  could  only  have  been  to 

them 

"Like  inarticulate  breathings  from  a  shrine 
Their  fancy  took  for  granted  was  divine." 

Soon  after  this,  to  my  great  surprise,  the  Bridal 
Address  appeared  in  the  London  Weekly  Gazette.  It 
was  inserted  (at  least,  I  so  believe)  by  the  editors,  with 
out  the  influence  or  knowledge  of  any  of  my  friends,  as 
an  American  production  worthy  of  being  quoted ;  all 
which  to  a  youthful  authoress  was  sufficiently  gratify 
ing.  From  that  moment  the  self-mistrust  which  had 
always  chilled  me,  when  I  was  persuaded  to  make  pub 
lic  what  I  wrote,  began  to  melt  away.  I  continued  to 


USAGES    OF    THE   NORTHERN    GERMANS.  91 

write  on  various  subjects,  in  poetry  and  prose,  and  sent 
home  occasional  articles,  which  were  published  in  the 
popular  magazines  of  the  day.  The  following,  which 
appeared  in  the  Ladies'  Companion,  gives  my  impres 
sions  of  the  manners  and  customs  by  which  I  was 
surrounded  :  — 

"USAGES    AND   MANNERS  OF  THE   NORTHERN   GERMANS. 

"  There  is,  perhaps,  no  entertainment  where  so  much 
tediousness  and  enjoyment,  so  much  vivacity  and  dul- 
uess,  are  incongruously  mingled  as  at  a  German  dinner 
party  of  the  present  day :  enjoyment,  because  sufficient 
wit  and  humor  are  congregated  to  speed  Time  on  the 
wings  of  Pleasure  —  tediousness,  because  even  Pleasure 
tires  at  length  of  using  her  wings,  and  leaves  Time  to 
hang  heavily  about  the  shoulders  of  those  she  forsakes. 
Four,  even  Jive,  hours  passed  at  the  table  is  considered 
no  unusual  sitting  ;  and  charmed  must  the  voice  be  if  its 
tones  sink  not  into  the  monotony  of  heaviness,  and 
bright  the  wit,  if  its  flashes,  tested  through  this  weary 
ordeal,  lose  none  of  their  brilliancy. 

"  The  name  of  each  invited  guest,  written  on  a  slip 
of  paper,  is  found  on  the  plate  designed  for  his  use  ;  and 
in  this  manner  the  hostess  reserves  the  privilege  of 
joining  those  whose  characters  and  fancies  assimilate, 
and  separating  such  as  are  at  variance  or  of  uncongenial 
temperaments ;  thus,  with  the  ever-needful  assistance 
of  the  peacemaker,  Tact,  insuring  the  harmony  of  her 
entertainment. 

%;  When  dinner  is  announced,  each  gentleman  prome 
nades  a  lady  round  the  table  until  her  name  is  discov 
ered,  then  leaves  her  to  seek  the  seat  assigned  to  himself, 
and  though  nobody  enjoys  the  privilege  of  changing  his 


92       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

place,  a  timely  hint  to  the  hostess  is  not  without  its 
influence  in  securing  the  most  agreeable  one. 

"  The  festive  board  is  gorgeously  spread  with  vases 
of  costly  china,  perfuming  the  air  with  the  bright-hued 
plunder  of  the  greenhouse  and  garden,  garlands  of 
flowers,  baskets  of  luscious  fruits,  and  a  profusion  of 
tempting  preserves,  and  fanciful  confectionery,  to  delight 
the  eye  ;  while  the  other  senses  are  gratifying  themselves 
with  the  smoking  and  highly-seasoned  viands,  carved  by 
the  servants  at  side  tables,  and  handed  separately  round 
the  general  board. 

"  The  company  once  seated,  a  stranger  is  attracted  by 
the  courteous  custom  which  makes  each  person  turn  with 
a  smiling  countenance  to  his  neighbor,  and,  bowing,  wish 
him  *  einen  guten  appetit ; '  for  there  is  a  good-humored 
politeness  in  this  social  usage,  which  inspires  a  kindly 
feeling  towards  those  in  whose  society  you  are  thrown. 
You  meet  together  to  while  away  a  few  jovial  hours,  to 
make  acquaintances  of  strangers,  or  draw  closer  the 
bonds  of  friendship  round  acquaintances  already  made  ; 
and  your  intercourse  commences  with  a  friendly  wish, 
responded  by  every  lip,  which  seems  to  give  you,  even 
though  strangers,  some  emotion  in  common,  some  desire, 
which,  being  mutual,  assists  in  establishing  that  ease 
without  which  enjoyment  may  be  assumed  but  never 
really  felt. 

"  It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  describing  the  order 
of  courses,  which  vary  from  fifteen  to  twenty,  and  are 
principally  remarkable  for  the  present  mode  of  serving 
pudding  before  meat ;  between  each  course,  an  interval, 
which  would  be  long,  unshortened  by  the  agreeable  con 
verse  of  those  around,  is  permitted  to  intervene. 

"  In  the  avowed  land  of  melody,  it  would  appear  use- 


GERMAN    DINNER    PARTIES.  93 

less  to  mention  that  the  most  exquisite  songs  and  finest 
instrumental  music  form  a  delightful  part  of  this  as  of 
every  festivity.  A  number  of  toasts  are  usually  drunk, 
accompanied  by  speeches  from  thefr  proposers ;  each 
glass,  when  filled,  being  raised  and  lightly  touched  to 
the  one  nearest  on  either  side,  is  made  to  send  forth  a 
musical,  ringing  sound,  peculiarly  merry  and  pleasant  to 
the  ear  ;  and,  so  dexterously  is  this  ceremony  sometimes 
performed,  that  the  simultaneously  joined  glasses,  circling 
the  table,  seem  to  form  symbolic  links  of  the  social 
chain  that  unites  those  who  hold  them,  which,  (as  they 
generally  drink  claret,)  in  lightness  and  rosiness,  may  be 
further  compared  to  these  emblematic  fetters.  If  the 
health  of  one  of  the  company,  as  an  especial  honor,  is 
proposed,  every  glass  is  touched  to  his,  and  gentlemen 
seated  at  a  distance  from  the  person  toasted  ordinarily 
rise,  and  approach  him,  that  their  glasses  may  come  in 
collision.  The  health  of  the  host  and  hostess,  with  an 
acknowledgment  of  their  hospitality,  is  never  omitted ; 
and  the  beautiful  or  humorous  sentiments  expressed  in 
these  toasts  are  an  unbounded  source  of  entertainment 

"  After  a  number  of  courses  have  been  served,  the 
host  leaves  his  seat,  and,  slowly  making  the  tour  of  the 
table,  pauses  beside  each  guest,  to  whisper  kind  wishes, 
or  make  some  civil  inquiry,  or  lively  jest,  which  soon 
spreads  amongst  the  company.  I  once  saw  a  charming 
old  gentleman,  the  snows  of  many  a  winter  wreathing  his 
brow,  who  was  promenading  round  his  convivial  board, 
when  he  reached  the  chair  of  his  still  blooming  \vife,  and 
she  raising  her  good-tempered  face,  (which  had  been  smil 
ingly  turned  towards  her  guests,  like  a  sunbeam  shedding 
light  on  all  around,)  feigned  to  be  too  occupied  to 
stop,  but  suddenly,  and  playfully  stooping,  snatched  a 


94       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

kiss  from  the  lips  so  temptingly  approached  to  his,  with 
all  the  enthusiasm  a  young  lover  might  have  infused  in 
the  act ;  nor  was  this  little  incident,  or  accident,  rather, 
considered  as  an  evidence  of  ill  breeding,  or  made  the 
subject  of  severe  comment,  as  in  any  more  form-loving 
land  it  inevitably  would  have  been. 

"  After  the  hundred  and  one  courses  have  wearily  run 
their  course,  if  the  family  live  in  the  good  old-fashioned 
style,  richly-ornamented  pipes,  of  a  ludicrous  length,  are 
introduced,  and  generally  not  without  making  the  better 
acquaintance  of  every  gentleman  present ;  who  freely 
indulges  in  the  luxury  of  sending  forth  fantastic  wreaths 
of  smoke  to  circle  the  fair  one  by  his  side,  without  the 
remotest  fear  of  a  distasteful  frown  deepening  on  her 
brow ;  and  she,  if  fatigued,  or  preferring  a  more  poetic 
garland,  may  soon  disappear,  almost  unperceived,  amid 
the  clouds  of  smoke  which  darken  the  air,  and  refresh 
herself  with  the  perfume  of  the  carefully-tended  garden, 
which  is  oftener  sought  than  the  boudoir  or  parlor.  But, 
in  general,  the  company  rise  together,  and  bowing  to 
each  other,  or  cordially  grasping  hands,  conclude  the 
ceremonies  of  the  table  by  wishing  the  hearty  Gesegnete 
Mahlzeit,  (  May  your  meal  be  blessed  to  you,'  which  a 
foreigner,  who  has  witnessed  the  abundant  and  varied 
repast  of  which  they  were  pressed  to  partake,  may 
secretly  imagine  is  needed  to  insure  its  digestion.  After 
a  promenade  in  the  garden,  the  company  reassemble  in 
the  parlor,  and  well  may  the  politeness  of  an  American 
lady  be  beguiled  into  the  vulgarity  of  amazement,  to  see 
her  German  friends  quietly  seat  themselves,  and  com 
posedly  draw  forth  their  needlework,  as  though  busily 
engaged  beside  their  own  little  work  tables  at  home. 
The  more  elderly  knit,  the  young  embroider,  and  the 


INDUSTRY    OF    GERMAN    LADIES.  95 

needle  is  plied  to  the  jnerry  music  of  their  tongues,  for 
their  employment  assists  rather  than  precludes  conver 
sation.  A  German  lady  cannot  conceive  the  possibility 
of  passing  an  easy  and  pleasurable  hour  with  her  fingers 
unoccupied.  To  so  great  an  extent  does  she  carry  this 
industrious  mania,  as  to  play  Penelope  even  while  re 
ceiving  morning  visitors,  who,  if  they  come  to  pass  a 
few  hours,  are  prepared  to  follow  her  example.  I  heard 
the  naive  excuse  of  a  young  wife,  who,  being  questioned 
on  this  subject  by  a  foreigner,  laughingly  replied,  '  We 
are  weaving  into  substance  again  the  smoke  which  our 
spendthrift  husbands  are  puffing  to  the  winds,  lest  their 
extravagance  should  ruin  us.  They  waste,  we  save ;  so 
the  balance  is  kept  even.' 

"  The  Germans  are  remarkably  fond  of  the  open  air. 
and,  after  dinner,  coffee  is  served,  sometimes  at  small 
tables  in  the  garden,  which  often  faces  the  street,  some 
times  in  vine-covered  bowers,  in  the  graceful  balcony,  or 
even  unsheltered  on  the  open  walk,  when  the  house  is 
pleasantly  located  on  the  ramparts,  or  in  an  open  square, 
or  in  a  wide  street.  The  ladies,  while  sipping  their  coffee, 
do  not  relinquish  their  needles,  taking  a  stitch  ever  and 
anon  to  refresh  themselves  with  the  comfortable  assurance 
that  they  are  not  idle  ;  nor  have  the  surrounding  gentle 
men  parted  with  their  pipes,  which  bear  them  affection 
ate  company,  unobjected  to  by  the  ladies,  for  they  all 
seem,  with  Halleck,  to  have  discovered 

.      <  The  free 

And  happy  spirit  that  unseen  reposes 
In  the  dim,  shadowy  clouds  that  hover  o'er  us, 
When  smoking  quietly,' 

and  to  tolerate,  even  hail,  that  spirit's  presence.  If  the 
residence  of  the  host  is  not  distant  from  the  public  gar- 


96       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

dens,  they  frequently  are  sought  by  the  company  to 
listen  to  the  delightful  band  of  music  ordinarily  stationed 
there.  On  returning  to  the  house,  tea  is  served,  and  the 
young  people  amuse  themselves  with  games  and  dancing, 
the  elderly  continuing  their  employments  ;  a  light  sup 
per  is  handed  round,  and  the  party  breaks  up,  rarely 
earlier,  and  seldom  later,  than  ten  o'clock. 

"  On  leaving  the  house,  it  is  customary  for  each  per 
son  to  present  the  servant,  stationed  at  the  street  door, 
with  a  piece  of  money,  equal  to  five  or  six  shillings ;  and 
this  'drink  geld,'  as  it  is  called,  which  is  obtained  in 
various  ways  from  the  guests  of  the  master,  is  always 
carried  to  the  mistress  of  the  mansion,  and  kept  by  her 
until  the  end  of  the  year,  when  it  is  distributed  amongst 
all  the  domestics  of  the  family,  and  often  amounts  to  so 
considerable  a  sum  that  a  servant,  before  making  an 
engagement,  regularly  asks  whether  much  company  is 
received,  that  an  estimate  may  be  formed  of  the  lucra- 
tiveness  of  the  situation. 

"  The  funeral  obsequies  of  the  Germans  vary  in  their 
different  cities,  and  are  generally  marked  by  some 
striking  peculiarity.  In  Hamburg,  full  wigs,  of  long, 
curling,  flaxen  hair,  are  usually  worn  by  the  pall  bearers 
and  attendants  at  the  funeral.  In  Bremen,  where  I  had 
more  frequent  opportunity  of  witnessing  the  last  cere 
monies  in  honor  of  the  dead,  the  coffin,  exposed  on  an 
open  hearse,  is  preceded  by  a  long  procession  of  hired 
attendants,  clothed  in  the  deepest  mourning,  wearing 
three-cornered  hats  and  flowing  cloaks,  fastened  from 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  followed  by  a  train  of  friends 
and  relatives,  sometimes  with  bared  heads,  in  respect  to 
the  departed. 

"  The  instant  death  claims  its  earthly  victim,  an  at- 


FUNERAL    CUSTOMS.  97 

tendant,  in  the  above-mentioned  costume,  is  despatched 
formally  to  announce  the  event  to  the  connections, 
friends,  and  neighbors  of  the  deceased.  This  custom 
lias  given  rise  to  some  ludicrous  mistakes,  when  foreign 
ers  have  been  near  residents  of  the  house  of  mourning, 
as  was  evinced  by  a  party  of  American  gentlemen,  who 
were  disturbed  in  their  evening  conviviality  by  the  sud 
den  appearance  of  one  of  these  sable-clad  messengers., 
begging  to  inform  them,  in  the  name  of  a  wealthy  and 
beautiful  lady  of  the  neighborhood,  that  she  had  just 
become  a  widow.  The  won'dering  strangers,  having 
often  in  their  promenades  paid  homage  to  the  loveliness 
of  the  unknown  lady,  cordially  thanked  the  messenger, 
crossed  his  palm  with  silver  for  his  trouble  or  for  good 
luck's  sake,  and  bade  him  present  their  compliments  to 
the  afflicted  lady;  then  congratulating  themselves  on 
the  evidence  of  her  preference,  in  thus  speedily  commu 
nicating  her  situation,  commenced  calculating  how  soon 
they  might  pay  her  their  consolatory  devoirs,  and  decided 
that  the  civility  should  be  acknowledged  without  delay  : 
but,  happening  to  boast  of  their  fortunate  adventure  to 
a  friend  somewhat  more  au  fait  to  the  customs  of  the 
country,  the  extraordinary  meaning  they  had  given  to 
an  ordinary  form  was,  much  to  their  disappointment, 
discovered. 

"  The  body  of  the  deceased,  for  many  days  after  the 
spirit  has  been  disinthralled,  is  watched  with  all  the  care 
and  tenderness  which  were  given  to  the  couch  of  the 
living,  and  remains  unconsigned  to  its  parent  earth  until 
dissolution  has  rudely  banishecf  any  hope  of  revival 
which  lingered  round  the  cherished  clay.  In  Vienna, 
and  several  other  cities  of  Germany,  an  elegant  building, 
conveniently  arranged,  is  especially  devoted  to  the  recep- 
7 


98  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AN   ACTRESS. 

tion  of  the  dead ;  thither,  on  soft  litters,  they  are  gently 
removed,  placed  in  a  comfortable  bed  and  heated  cham 
ber,  (in  winter,)  with  a  bellrope  attached  to  their  hands, 
that,'  should  animation  return,  assistance  might  be  in 
stantly  summoned ;  and  thus  the  mourners,  clinging  to 
a  fragile  hope,  by  long  contemplation  of  their  affliction, 
become  familiarized  with  its  presence  before  they  yield 
to  the  reluctant  conviction  of  its  reality.  Thus  they 
rob  the  first  bitter  pangs  of  their  poignancy,  and,  as 
Gelaleddin  of  the  East,  who,  when  the  favorite  slave  of 
his  idolatry  expired  in  his  arms,  commanded  her  to  be 
borne  to  her  sumptuous  couch,  forbade  her  death  to  be 
mentioned,  inquired  daily  after  her  health,  and  regularly 
ordered  her  meals  to  be  prepared  and  served,  —  like  him, 
they  soothe  their  sorrow  by  blinding  themselves  a  while 
to  the  certainty  of  its  existence. 

"A  churchyard  is  never,  in  Germany,  as  so  often 
with  us,  the  shunned  and  deserted  spot,  the  mere  neces 
sary  receptacle  of  lifeless  flesh  and  crumbling  bones, 
where  nothing  but  the  senseless  marble  and  as  cold  and 
meaningless  inscription,  in  the  words  of  Korner,  says, 
'  Vergiss  die  trenen  todten  nicht.' 

"  In  the  beautiful  calm  of  a  summer's  evening,  or  in 
the  memory-wakening  stillness  of  a  moonlight  night,  let 
the  traveller  seek  the  silent  shades  that  shroud  the  un- 
forgotten  dead.  Whom  does  he  see  kneeling,'with  fore 
head  bowed  in  prayer  on  the  flower-strewn  sod  ?  The 
wifeless  father !  His  little  ones  cling  to  his  side,  their 
young  hearts  swelling  as  they  hear  of  her  who  sleeps 
beneath,  yet  lives  abo^e ;  and  they  learn  at  the  grave 
of  the  mother  whose  hand  would  have  guided  them  to 
immortal  happiness,  the  path  by  which  they  may  rejoin 
her  on  high.  Proceed  a  step  farther.  You  will  see  a 


GERMAN    CEMETERIES.  99 

young  widow  bending  over  a  shattered  column,*  and 
with  gentle  hands  training  the  ivy  at  its  base  to  wind 
round  that  sculptured  emblem,  even  as  her  thoughts 
and  affections  intwine  the  memory  of  the  departed. 
Still  on  —  a  limner's  group  of  rosy  children,  check 
ing  their  youthful  merriment  in  this  sacred  spot, 
are  silently  wreathing  the  tomb  of  their  parents  with 
fresh  garlands,  or  planting  new  flowers  amid  the  already 
blooming  parterre  which  conceals,  yet  marks,  their 
graves.  If  one  form  reposes  in  that  hallowed  ground 
whose  memory  has  ceased  to  d\vell  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  '  live  to  weep,'  your  eye  selects  its  resting- 
place  at  a  glance  —  the  straggling  bushes  of  long-neg 
lected  flowers  struggle  with  rank  and  choking  weeds 
that  overtop  them  —  no  wreath  hangs,  in  graceful  me 
morial,  over  the  costly  monument,  or  hides  the  rude 
stone  —  the  path  around  is  grass-grown,  and  untrodden 
by  the  feet  of  memory  and  love.  It  is  a  desert  spot, 
where  beauty  has  withered  as  affection  decayed. 
"  Schiller  says  truly,  — 

'  Die  Klage  sie  wecket 
Die  Todten  nicht  auf.' 

And  to  mourn  is  indeed  unavailing ;  but  should  forget- 
fulness  be  sought  as  the  comforter  of  affliction,  and  con 
solation  be  found  alone  in  the  Lethe  which  banishes  the 
lost  from  our  thoughts  ?  Death,  which  proves 

'  What  dust  we  dote  on  when  'tis  man  we  love,' 

should  rather  be  the  test  of  how  perfect  and  changeless 
is  that  affection  which,  cherishing  the  soul,  not  merely 

*  A  monument  not  unusual  in  the  graveyards  of  Germany. 


100      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

its  mortal  tenement,  survives,  with  that  death-defying 
spirit,  forever." 

In  alluding  to  the  habits  and  peculiarities  of  the  Ger 
mans,  I  cannot  forbear  to  mention  those  with  which  I 
was  most  charmed  —  their  betrothal  and  bridal  ceremo 
nies.  These  formed  the  subject  of  the  following  article, 
written  from  Germany,  and  published  in  one  of  the 
periodicals  of  the  day  :  -r— 

"BRIDAL  CUSTOMS  OF  THE  NORTHERN  GERMANS. 

"  There  still  exists,  even  at  this  time,  when  imagina- 
tion  has  been  dethroned  by  cheerless  reality,  and  form 
and  fashion  have  utterly  banished  romance  frdm  the 
circle  of  domestic  happiness,  a  charm  interwoven  with 
the  nuptial  ceremonies  of  the  Germans,  which  pre 
serves  the  warm  and  social  emotions  of  the  heart  in 
their  primitive  brightness  and  purity. 

"When  a. young  girl  is  once  betrothed,  were  the 
Hindoo  tali  (whose  bond  death  only  can  dissolve) 
around  her  neck,  she  could  not  feel  herself  more  irrev 
ocably  joined  to  him  whom  her  plighted  faith  has 
blessed.  She  is,  therefore,  moved  by  no  calculating  mo 
tives  for  concealment.  She  is  not  coquette  enough  to 
court  the  attentions  of  other  men,  whom  her  unac 
knowledged  vows  might  mislead ;  and  a  faithless  lover, 
a  jilted  lady,  and  a  broken  engagement,  are  phenomena 
in  her  land  too  rarely  heard  of  to  be  dreaded.  Thus 
she  does  not  blush  to  proclaim  to  the  world  her 

'  Pure,  open,  prosperous  love, 
That,  pledged  on  earth,  and  sealed  above, 
Grows  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 

In  friendship's  smile,  and  home's  caress, 
Collecting  all  the  heart's  sweet  ties 
Into  one  knot  of  happiness.' 


BRIDAL  CUSTOMS  OP  THE  GERMANS.     101 

H<T  acquaintances  are  soon  made  partakers  of  her  hap 
piness.  From  this  hour  to  that  of  her  marriage  she  is 
called  *  bride,'  (resigning  the  name  the  instant  she  be 
comes  a  wife.)  and  regarded  as  a  being  on  whom  every 
testimony  of  affection  and  every  kindness  of  friendship 
are  to  be  lavished.  Her  friends  and  connections  select 
her  as  the  queen  of  their  fetes ;  and,  at  the  dinner 
parties  daily  given  in  her  honor,  the  seats  of  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  grace  the  head  of  the  festive  board. 
Their  plates  are  wreathed  with  garlands  of  natural 
flowers,  and  bouquets  of  the  most  exquisite  buds  and 
blossoms  bloom  in  vases  beside  them.  The  first  health 
proposed  is  the  bride's,  often  accompanied  by  a  feeling 
and  beautiful  address  to  the  happy  pair.  It  is  usual 
for  the  bridegroom  to  express  his  thanks  in  an  answer. 

"A  week  before  the  nuptials,  the  most  intimate 
friend  of  the  bride  invites  her  young  companions  to  a 
festival  called  'The  Binding  of  the  Myrtle  Wreath.' 
On  this  occasion  no  married  person  is  admitted. 

••  The  myrtle  wreath,  which  is  to  mingle  with  the 
tresses  of  the  bride  at  her  nuptials,  is  woven  by  the 
hands  of  young  maidens,  and  the  gentlemen  are  ex 
cluded  from  their  presence  until  this  ceremony  is  com 
pleted  ;  the  evening  is  then  divided  between  dancing 
and  amusing  games.  When  the  bridal  morning  arrives, 
bright-colored  flags  float  gayly  from  the  windows  of  the 
bridegroom's  friends  and  business  acquaintances  ;  and  a 
profusion  of  cadeaux,  flowers,  and  poetry  is  showered 
in  upon  the  bride.  At  the  altar  her  brow  is  encircled 
by  the  myrtle  wreath,  whose  binding  she  witnessed  a 
few  days  previous  —  the  emblem  of  that  everlasting 
faith  and  constancy  implanted  in  her  heart.  During 


102      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 


f 


the  evening  there  is  always  a  sportive  attempt  to  pluck 
the  leaves  from  her  garland,  over  which,  to  prevent 
these  depredations,  the  bridegroom  becomes  guardian ; 
and  liis  hand  alone,  when  her  friends  withdraw,  removes 
the  wreath  from  her  brow.  A  serenade  beneath  their 
windows  closes  the  ceremonies  ;  and  though, 

'  "When  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  father's  hall, 
She  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new, 
She  parts  from  the  love  which  hath  still  been  true,' 

she  seldom,  in  that  happy  clime,  parts  to  weep  over 
changed  affections  and  unrealized  hopes. 

"Twenty-five  years  after  the  day  of  their  union, 
should  both  parties  be  so  fortunate  as  to  reach  together 
that  advanced  period,  another  festival  celebrates  the 
virtues  of  the  wife,  who  again  receives  gifts,  and  tokens 
of  affection,  and  congratulatory  poems  (some  I  have 
seen  printed  on  satin)  from  her  friends.  Seated  on  a 
chair  of  state  at  an  appointed  hour,  her  two  youngest 
children  (if  she  have  any)  approach  her,  bearing  a  bas 
ket  heaped  with  newly-gathered  flowers,  among  the 
leaves  of  which  glitters  a  silver  crown.  Presenting 
their  beautiful  burden,  they  recite  some  verses,  gener 
ally  composed  by  the  elder  children.  Their  father,  who 
stands  by  her  side,  receives  the  crown  and  places  it  on 
the  head  of  his  wife,  whose  thoughts  perhaps  wander 
back  to  the  eve  when  the  myrtle  wreath  lay  freshly 
there,  and  over  the  years  that  have  since  fled,  which 
start  up  one  by  one  before  her,  while  she  asks  her  heart 
if  it  has  been  as  true  and  as  fond  as  it  vowed  to  be,  or 
whether  there  is  not  yet  some  evidence  of  love  unshown, 
some  sacrifice  of  affection  unoffered,  by  which  she  can 
add  to  the  felicity  of  her  husband  and  of  his  home. 


THE    GOLDEN    WEDDING.  103 

"  "When  half  a  century  has  rolled  away,  and  the  bride 
of  fifty  years  ago  has  survived  to  be  the  beloved  wife  of 
half  a  hundred  years  of  tried  and  unchanging  affection, 
an  event  so  extraordinary  and  so  unfrequently  wit 
nessed  is  celebrated  by  the  '  golden  hochzeit,'  or  golden 
wedding,  at  which  a  crown  of  gold  is  presented  the  rev 
erend  matron.  A  clergyman,  addressing  the  aged  pair, 
rehearses  the  blessings  which  have  been  granted  to 
them  in  the  long  life  they  have  spent  together,  and 
revives  the  emotions  of  their  youth  in  the  remembrance 
of  its  by -gone  pleasures. 

'•'  By  some  these  customs  would  be  esteemed  useless 
or  absurd ;  but  when  we  reflect  that  they  cherish  and 
keep  fresh  the  kindliest  feelings  of  the  heart,  constrain 
those  who  are  honored  by  them  to  review  their  past 
lives  and  ask  themselves  whether  the  silver  and  the 
golden  crown  —  the  rewards  of  constancy  and  affection 
—  have  been  fairly  won,  we  may  rather  lament  that 
these  ceremonies  should  be  confined  to  romantic  Ger 
many  alone." 

There  are  so  few  objects  of  very  decided  interest  to  a 
traveller  in  Bremen,  that  I  must  not  pass  over  without 
mention  the  remarkable  cathedral  which  it  contains. 
I  have  forgotten  the  dimensions,  as  I  took  no  notes  of 
them  at  the  time.  The  cathedral  is  immensely  high, 
and  resembles  some  temple  of  the  Greek  or  Roman 
gods  rather  than  any  modern  edifice.  It  is  filled  with 
gayly-colored  pictures  of  Adam,  Xoah,  Abraham,  Jacob, 
Sarah,  Rebecca,  Esther,  &c.,  &c.,  habited  in  somewhat 
theatrical  costumes.  The  pulpit  is  in  the  centre  of  the 
church.  The  altar  is  at  the  west  end,  and  appears  not 
unlike  a  boicer.  It  is  composed  of  four  columns,  wound 
round  with  gilt  flowers,  festoons  of  which  are  gracefully 


104      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

suspended  from  the  summit.  Upon  the  top  stands  a 
puinted  figure  of  our  Savior.  One  extended  hand 
holds  a  golden  crown,  and  the  other  a  cross.  At  each 
end  of  the  four  corners  are  recording  angels,  with  open 
books  and  ready  pens.  Beneath  is  the  communion 
table,  its  rich  covering  of  crimson  velvet  worked  with 
emblematical  devices  in  gold  by  the  young  ladies  of 
Bremen.  A  grape  vine,  loaded  with  long  clustering 
branches  of  golden  fruit,  forms  the  rear  of  the  altar. 
The  pulpit  is  supported  by  little,  chubby,  laughing 
angels,  displaying  their  white  teeth  to  great  advantage, 
and  by  a  ring  of  merry-looking  apostles,  whose  persons 
betoken  the  most  indubitably  robust  health. 

In  the  vault  of  the  cathedral  dead  bodies  are  pre 
served  for  centuries  without  decay.  The  bodies  are  not 
embalmed,  but  literally  dried.  It  is  a  matter  of  ques 
tion  and  wonder  how  the  vault  acquired  the  singular 
property  of  preservation.  There  have  been  various 
speculations  on  the  subject,  but  no  satisfactory  reason 
has  yet  been  given.  The  coffins  were  open,  and  the 
mysteriously-embalmed  corpses,  wrapped  in  their  decay 
ing  shrouds,  exhibited  to  visitors.  Some  of  the  bodies 
were  four  hundred  years  old.  The  teeth  of  the  Coun 
tess  of  Stanhope  (who  is  said  to  have  been  a  great 
beauty)  were  still  perfect,  and  a  noble  baron  by  her 
side  yet  retained  his  corpulent  appearance.  One  body 
was  that  of  a  mason,  who  had  fallen  from  the  top  of  the 
cathedral  and  broken  his  neck.  The  head  was  almost 
completely  separated  from  the  body,  though  both  were 
in  a  perfect  state  of  preservation.  Another  body  was 
that  of  a  young  student,  who  had  been  shot  in  a  duel 
for  his  lady  love.  The  hole  in  his  breast  where  the  ball 
went  through  was  distinctly  visible.  One  of  our  party 


FREI    MAKKT.  105 

4    - 

\ 

profanely  severed  a  lock  of  hair  from  the  head  of  this 
Romeo  —  robbing  the  dead  of  locks  which  time  had 
spared. 

Immediately  in  front  of  the  cathedral  is-  a  small  stone, 
upon  which  a  cross  is  rudely  cut,  to  mark  the  spot 
where  the  notorious  Gottfried  was  beheaded.  She  is 
said  to  have  committed  upwards  of  seventy  murders. 
Amongst  her  victims  were  her  own  husband  and 
children. 

During  our  stay  in  Bremen  the  Frei  Markt,  or  an 
nual  fair,  —  the  greatest  jubilee  in  the  year,  —  was  held. 
It  is  described  in  the  following  letter,  addressed  at  the 
time  to  one  of  my  sisters  :  — 

4i  Bremen  has  thrown  aside  her  sombre  garb  and 
sober  air  of  calm  monotony  and  unexcited  content. 
The  great  annual  fair  has  commenced,  and  every  thing 
is  joviality,  and  bustle,  and  confusion.  Fancy  yourself 
transported  to  our  side,  dear  May,  and  we  will  take  you 
to  see  the  Frei  3/arkt.  After  your  imaginary  flight 
through  the  air,  you  find  yourself  in  a  large,  gallery-like 
room,  all  doors  and  windows,  with  a  floor  minus  the  dear 
luxury  of  a  carpet,  but  so  highly  polished  that  you  can 
gee  your  form  reflected  as  in  a  mirror ;  and  if  you  step 
too  quickly,  you  will  run  some  risk  of  measuring  your 
length.  This  is  our  drawing  room.  The  windows  open 
on  the  ever-charming  ramparts.  Stand  at  those  win 
dows  from  t  early  morn  to  dewy  eve/  and  your  ears  will 
be  greeted  by  uninterrupted  strains  of  music  —  some 
times  approaching  —  sometimes  dying  away  in  the  dis 
tance  —  sometimes  immediately  beneath  the  windows  — 
but  music  in  some  shape  never  ceases.  Xow  you  hear 
the  soft  tones  of  a  rude  harp  —  now  a  wild,  native 
instrument,  with  piercing  notes,  played  on  by  young 


10G       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

boys  —  now  it  is  only  an  organ  to  which  you  are  listen 
ing,  but  it  is  managed  with  a  skill  to  us  unknown.  The 
organ  is  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  songstresses,  the 
pathos  of  whose  rich  voices  would  impart  a  charm  even 
to  a  less  romantic  accompaniment,  could  such  be  found. 

"  We  walk  out  together.  The  ramparts,  the  gardens, 
the  public  squares,  the  streets  are  all  densely  crowded. 
Ladies  in  their  gayest  attire,  countrywomen  in  their 
gala  costumes,  happy  boys  filling  the  air  with  merry 
sounds  from  the  castanets  on  their  fingers,  crowds  of 
laughing  children  with  wreaths  of  flowers  on  their 
heads,  all  are  hastening  to  enjoy  the  universal  holiday. 

"  We  pursue  our  way  along  the  ramparts.  See ! 
there  is  a  circus  opened  for  these  twelve  days  only. 
Near  it  an  uncouth  enclosure  has  suddenly  sprung  up, 
where  rope  dancers  are  terrifying,  and  therefore  delight 
ing,  the  gaping  crowd.  The  road  is  lined  with  wander 
ing  minstrels,  singing  and  playing  for  groats.  At  last 
we  reach  the  great  square  and  the  market-place,  where 
the  fair  is  held.  Here  the  throng  is  so  tlense  that  we 
must  fight  our  way  by  means  of  divers  gentle  elbowings, 
quiet  nudges,  and  pertinacious  pushings,  if  we  would 
pass  at  all.  See  the  gayly-colored  boats,  and  cars  filled 
with  enchanted  boys  and  girls,  swiftly  wafted  through 
the  air  !  Look  at  those  little  urchins  bestriding  flying 
ponies,  that  whirl  round  a  miniature  railway  to  the 
sound  of  music !  Each  youthful  hero  has  a  mimic 
sword  in  his  outstretched  hand,  and  strives  to  secure  the 
golden  ring  which  peeps  forth  from  a  small  opening  at 
the  side  of  a  pole.  But  no  sooner  is  the  prize  borne  in 
triumph  away  than  the  ring  is  magically  replaced  by 
another. 

"  The  whole  square  is  covered  with  booths,  fancifully 


FREI    MARKT.  107 

decorated,  and  fairy -looking  houses,  transported  there  in 
a  night.  These  are  filled  with  curiosities,  exhibited  by 
rosy-cheeked  gir,ls  from  the  interior  and  south  of  Ger 
many.  Some  of  them  are  dressed  in  the  picturesque 
Tyrolese  costume  ;  the  beauty  of  others  is  disguised  by 
the  frightful  provincial  garb  of  black,  with  fifty  long, 
funeral  ribbons  hanging  from  their  heads ;  some  are  in 
the  Hollandish  dress,  with  wide  brass  bands  encircling 
their  brow ;  but  the  larger  portion  wear  the  more  simple 
bodice,  tunic,  striped  petticoat,  and  clean  white  cap  of 
Bremen. 

"All  dwellings  that  face  the  square  and  market, 
whether  private  houses  or  hotels,  are  rented  out  for 
these  twelve  days  to  foreign  venders,  and  rapid  and 
singular  is  the  transformation  effected  by  the  latter. 
No  one  knows  his  own  home  again. 

"  But  let  us  not  pass  those  wonder-relating  peddlers 
without  stopping.  You  see  they  carry  about  a  series  of 
pictures,  pasted  on  boards  —  these  they  erect  at  each 
street  corner.  In  a  few  moments  a  crowd  assembles. 
Mute  and  statue-like  stand  the  people,  while  in  energetic 
language,  and  pointing  to  the  groups  of  uncouth  figures 
rudely  delineated,  this  novel  historian  recounts  how  a 
spectre  was  seen  in  a  haunted  castle,  where  murder  had 
been  committed ;  and  how  a  huge  sword,  that  hung 
against  the  wall,  dropped  blood ;  and  how  the  people 
fled,  and  the  skeleton  of  a  beautiful  maiden  was  discov 
ered,  &c.,  &c.,  —  all  to  the  evident  edification  of  his  at 
tentive  listeners.  Many  of  them  are  deeply  moved  at 
his  sublime  descriptions  of  the  beauty  of  the  lady,  as 
plainly  evinced  by  the  skeleton,  and  the  ferocity  of  her 
murderer,  as  attested  by  the  blood-dropping  sword. 
Sometimes,  during  the  relation  of  these  pathetic  scenes, 


108       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

solemn  music  is  played ;  sometimes  the  tale  of  horror 
ends  with  a  dirge  to  the  memory  of  some  unfortunate 
pair  ;  or,  if  the  tale  be  a  merry  one,  \vith  a  nuptial  song 
in  honor  of  a  happy  couple.  But  the  comic  relations 
have  Fewer  listeners.  A  German  crowd  are  more  en 
amoured  of  the  terrible." 

Twelve  days,  and  the  fair  is  over.  In  a  single 
night,  the  booths,  the  fairy  houses,  the  circus,  flying 
boats,  cars,  horses  disappear.  Bremen  wakes  up  the 
next  morning  from  her  festive  dream,  and  is  her  sober, 
stately  self  again. 

After  we  had  passed  some  weeks  in  Bremen,  my 
sister  and  her  husband  prepared  to  continue  their  trav 
els.  We  expected  Mr.  Mo  watt  to  join  us  in  a  few 
months,  and  I  preferred  quietly  awaiting  him  with  my 
aunt.  I  was  particularly  desirous  of  studying  the  Ger 
man  language,  and  so  excellent  an  opportunity  might 
not  again  be  presented.  We  found  no  difficulty  in 
hiring  a  pretty  furnished  house,  situated  upon  the  delight 
ful  Ramparts.  The  hospitality  of  our  neighbors  soon 
made  us  feel  domesticated.  My  aunt  could  not  speak  a 
word  of  German.  I  only  understood  a  few  sentences, 
and  yet  we  commenced  housekeeping  with  German 
domestics  ;  German  venders  to  market  with  ;  German 
tradespeople  to  deal  with  ;  German  friends  to  associate 
With,  very  few  of  whom  understood  English  any  better 
than  we  did  German.  I  used  to  make  purchases  at  the 
door  with  a  dictionary  in  my  hand.  Our  fruit  and 
vegetable  sellers,  to  whom  I  made  signs  requesting 
them  to  be  patient  while  I  hunted  out  the  necessary 
words,  stood  with  distended  mouths,  gazing  at  me  in 
mute  astonishment.  I  heard  that  a  feminine  dealer  in 
vegetables,  while  speaking  of  me  to  a  neighbor,  put  her 


GERMAN    HOUSEKEEPING.  109 

finger  significantly  on  her  forehead,  and  gave  a  doleful 
shake  of  the  head,  intimating  that  it  was  very  doubtful 
whether  all  was  right  with  me  in  that  region. 

My  aunt's  trials  of  this  nature  were  even  greater 
than  my  own.  Many  were  the  amusing  dilemmas  in 
which  she  was  placed,  owing  to  her  ignorance  of  the 
language.  One  day  she  had  gone  to  the  cuisine  to 
enact  a  series  of  pantomimic  directions  to  the  cook, 
while  I  was  busy  in  my  own  room.  By  and  by  she 
called  out  to  me,  in  great  distress,  — 

**  Good  gracious,  Anna,  what  is  the  German  for  a 
plate  ?  " 

"  Teller,"  I  replied,  leaning  over  the  stair. 

"  Tell  her  what  ?  "  returned  my  aunt,  not  supposing 
that  she  had  heard  aright. 

"  Teller,"  I  answered  back  at  the  top  of  my  voice. 

"  How  can  I  tell  her,  unless  you  tell  me  what  to  tell 
her  ?  "  she  retorted  in  a  tone  that  betokened  she  was 
gradually  becoming  heated — and,  indeed,  the  weather 
was  sultry. 

"  Can't  you  hear  me  tell  you  to  tell  her  teller  ?  " 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  do;  but  how  can  I  tell 
her,  unless  I  know  ichat  to  tell  her  ?  " 

I  was  laughing  so  heartily  that  I  could  only  shout 
out.  "Tell  her,  teller."  But,  fearing  that  my  aunt 
might  become  exasperated,  I  ran  down  stairs,  and  for 
her  edification  uttered  the  magic  word.  Of  course,  the 
desired  plate  was  produced,  to  her  great  amazement ; 
but  she  good  natu redly  joined  in  my  unrepressed  merri 
ment. 

After  the  long  rest,  —  for  I  had  hardly  opened  a  book 
since  I  left  America,  —  I  returned  to  my  studies  with 
fresh  eagerness.  The  clock  seldom  struck  six  when  I 


110       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

was  not  taking  my  morning  walk  on  the  Ramparts ;  or, 
with  a  bevy  of  children  and  their  nursery  maids,  feeding 
swans  that  floated  on  the  stream  which  divides  the 
Ramparts  and  the  counterscarp. 

At  nine  came  my  German  teacher,  a  most  accom 
plished  lady,  and  remained  two  hours.  She  was  suc 
ceeded  by  a  music  and  singing  master  ;  for  I  felt  bound 
to  return  to  my  Sisyphus  labor,  and  renew  my  battles 
with  the  unconquerable  music  lessons. 

Our  German  friends  continued  to  overwhelm  us  with 
the  warmest  hospitality,  and  in  a  very  short  time  I  had 
sufficient  command  of  the  language  to  enjoy  their  society. 
Sometimes  I  took  two  German  lessons  in  a  day,  instead 
of  one,  and  exquisite  was  my  enjoyment  when  the 
beauties  of  Goethe  and  Schiller  gradually  developed 
themselves  to  me. 

We  had  passed  about  three  months  in  Bremen,  when 
Mr.  Mowatt  unexpectedly  arrived.  We  looked  for  him 
a  fortnight  later.  He  took  all  the  kindest  precautions 
to  guard  me  against  the  excitement  of  a  surprise  ;  but 
an  annoying  contretemps  defeated  his  intentions.  I  was 
practising  at  the  piano,  when  I  heard  his  step  and  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  and  -a  second  afterwards  saw  him 
enter  the  room.  The  startled  sensation  of  joy  with 
which  I  sprang  from  my  seat,  produced,  for  the  first 
time,  a  hemorrhage  of  the  throat  or  lungs.  I  was  after 
wards  afflicted  in  the  same  manner,  for  several  years'", 
whenever  I  labored  under  violent  excitement.  It  was 
some  days  before  I  rallied.  My  newly-gained  health 
had  received  a  severe  shock. 

Mr.  Mowatt  proposed  that  we  should  visit  the  Rhine, 
make  a  tour  through  Switzerland,  Italy,  and  France, 
and  then  return  home.  The  preparations  for  our  jour- 


DEPARTURE  FROM  BREMEN.          Ill 

ney  were  nearly  completed,  when  he  was  suddenly  at 
tacked  by  a  disease  of  the  eye,  which  almost  destroyed 
his  sight.  The  utmost  skill  of  the  two  most  celebrated 
horno2opathists  in  Bremen  did  him  no  good.  He  passed 
four  months  in  a  darkened  chamber,  suffering  the  most 
excruciating  agony,  and  deprived  of  all  enjoyment,  save 
that  of  being  read  to,  or  talked  to,  from  morning  until 
night. 

Thus,  day  after  day,  each  wearier  and  sadder  than 
the  preceding,  passed  on,  though  his  affliction  was  borne 
with  an  almost  feminine  patience.  He  seemed  to  rally 
periodically,  and  then  sink  into  his  former  state. 
During  one  of  these  intervals,  I  persuaded  him  to 
attempt  a  journey  to  Paris,  in  the  hope  that  he  might 
obtain  more  efficient  medical  advice.  Our  preparations 
were  rapidly  made  for  fear  of  a  relapse.  It  was  De 
cember  ;  the  weather  was  intensely  cold,  the  travelling 
worse  than  at  any  other  period  of  the  year  ;  yet  we  set 
out  with  Indian  courage.  The  journey  was  accom 
plished  in,  I  think,  three  days. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

Q/ls  ' 

Paris.  —  Unexpected  Friends.  —  Visit  toVlahnemann.  — Mrs.  Hahne- 
mann.  —  Her  History.  —  Neio  Physicians.  —  Recovery  of  Sight.  — 

Parisian   Gayeties.  —  Description  of  Ball  at  Colonel  T n's.  — 

The    Carnival.  —  General  C ss.  —  Rachel  and   her  Sisters.  — 

.  Facilities  of  Education  in  France.  —  American  Copy  of  Parisian 
Manners.  —  Male  and  female  Politicians.  —  Louis  Philippe.  —  St. 
Germain  Society.  —  Place  de  la  Concorde.  —  Place  Vendome.  — 
Place  du  Carrousel.  — Fountains.  — Arc  de  Triomphe  de  VEtoile.  — 
Tuileries.  —  Les  Champs  Elysecs.  —  Bois  de  Boulogne.  —  Studies 
resumed.  —  Play  for  private  Representation  commenced.  —  Scenery 
painted  in  Paris.  —  Sailing  for  America. 

MOST  sad  was  our  entrance' into  that  metropolis,  where 
the  heart  of  the  great  world  is  said  to  beat  with  its 
merriest  pulsations.  The  strength  of  our  invalid  was 
completely  exhausted,  and  scarcely  had  we  reached 
Paris  when  he  became  dangerously  ill.  To  have 
delivered  the  letters  of  mere  fashionable  introduction 
with  which  we  were  abundantly  supplied,  would  at  that 
moment  have  been  a  mockery.  We  should  have  been 
desolate  indeed,  had  not  friends  sprung  up  around  us  in 
the  kind  relatives  of  a  French  brother-in-law.  He  was 
the  husband  of  that  sister  who  first  won  Mr.  Mowatt's 
admiration,  and  who  has  long  since  gone  to  the  "  better 
land." 

The  mother  and  sisters  of  Mr.  G were  women 

of  high  refinement  and  most  lovable  character.  They 
at  once  devoted  themselves  to  lightening  our  cares  for 
the  sick,  and  cheering  us  by  their  agreeable  society. 

(us) 


VISIT    TO    HAHNEMANN.  113 

Mr.  Mowatt,  however,  resisted  all  persuasions  to 
place  himself  in  the  hands  of  their  family  physi 
cian.  His  prejudices  were  in  favor  of  homeopathy. 
Hahnemann  was  then  residing  in  Paris,  and  if  the  new 
science  could  yield  balm  for  the  invalid's  affliction,  we 
might  seek  it  at  the  fountain  head. 

Hahnemann,  at  that  period,  had  become  too  feeble  to 
visit  his  patients.  He  received  them  at  his  own  resi 
dence.  Mi*.  Mowatt  being  confined  to  his  bed,  the  duty 
of  calling  upon  the  learned  doctor,  and  of  minutely 
describing  the  case,  devolved  upon  me. 

It  was  scarcely  nine  o'clock  when  I  entered  Hahne- 
mann's  magnificent  mansion ;  but  his  saloons  were  al 
ready  crowded,  and  one  o'clock  struck  before  I  gained 
an  audience.  A  valet,  in  gaudy  livery,  who  had  taken 
my  card  some  four  hours  before,  then  approached,  and 
informed  me  that  I  would  now  be  received  into  the  con 
sultation  chamber.  I  followed  him  through  a  succession 
^)f  apartments,  all  richly  furnished,  and  embellished 
with  numberless  busts  of  Hahnemann,  of  various  sizes. 
A  door  was  thrown  open,  and  I  entered  the  consultation 
room. 

At  the  head  of  a  long  table  sat  a  lady,  dressed  in  the 
most  recherche  demi-toilette,  with  a  gold  pen  in  her 
hand,  and  piles  of  books  and  papers  strewed  around 
her.  She  might  have  been  forty  years  old ;  but  I  am 
no  judge  of  ages.  Her  form  was  finely  rounded,  and 
her  face  still  fresh  and  handsome.  Her  brow  was 
remarkably  high,  and  the  hair,  thrown  back  from  her 
temples,  fell  in  long,  light  curls  upon  her  shoulders. 
Her  complexion  was  brilliantly  clear,  and  her  blue  eyes 
had  a  deeply-thoughtful  expression.  She  rose  to  receive 
me,  and  it  was  not  until  she  resumed  her  seat  that  a 
8 


114       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

shrivelled,  little,  old  man  became  visible.  He  was 
reclining  in  a  sumptuous  arm  chair,  with  a  black  velvet 
skullcap  on  his  head,  and  in  his  mouth  a  richly-en 
amelled  pipe,  that  reached  almost  to  his  knees.  His 
face  reminded  me  of  a  ruddy  apple  that  had  been 
withered  by  the  frost ;  but  the  small,  dark  eyes,  deeply 
set  in  his  head,  could  scarcely  have  glittered  with  more 
brilliancy  in  his  lusty  youth.  As  I  took  the  seat  which 
Mrs.  Hahnemann  designated,  he  noticed  me  with  a  look 
rather  than  a  bow,  and  removing  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  deliberately  sent  a  volume  of  smoke  across  the 
table  —  probably  in  token  of  greeting. 

Mrs.  Hahnemann  addressed  me,  and  wrote  down  my 
answers  to  her  numerous  questions  ;  but  at  the  con 
clusion  of  the  interview  declined  prescribing,  until  the 
invalid  made  the  effort  to  appear -in  person.  Hahne 
mann  sat  puffing  away  as  though  his  existence  depend 
ed  upon  the  amount  of  smoke  with  which  he  was  sur 
rounded,  and  apparently  intent  alone  upon  his  pleas 
ant  occupation.  But  when  I  spoke  of  our  long  visit 
to  Germany,  he  suddenly  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth. 
"  Sprechen  sie  Deutsche  ? "  were  the  first  words  he 
addressed  to  me. 

I  had  only  to  utter  "  Ya  wohl,"  when  a  species  of 
Promethean  fire  seemed  to  shoot  through  the  veins  of 
the  smoking  automaton ;  he  laid  down  his  pipe,  and 
commenced  an  animated  conversation  in  his  own  lan 
guage. 

He  spoke  of  Germany  and  her  institutions  with  en 
thusiasm  ;  asked  me  many  questions  concerning  Amer 
ica,  and  expressed  his  admiration  of  the  few  Americans 
with  whom  he  was  acquainted.  As  soon  as  politeness 
permitted,  I  led  back  the  subject  to  the  point  from 


MRS.    HAHXEilANN.  115 

which  we  had  originally  started  —  Mr.  Mowatt's  illness 
in  Germany.  At  the  first  medical  question,  the  pipe 
returned  to  its  former  position,  the  expanded  counte 
nance  shrivelled  up  again,  the  distended  muscles  re 
laxed,  the  erect  form  sank  back  into  a  withered  heap, 
and  was  quickly  enveloped  in  smoke  —  he  was  the 
wearied-out  old  man  again.  Mrs.  Hahnemann  answered 
my  question  with  much  suavity,  and  then  gracefully 
rose.  This  was  her  signal  of  dismission.  I  promised 
to  return  with  the  patient  as  soon  as  possible.  She 
touched  a  silver  bell,  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
the  liveried  valet  escorted  me  to  my  carriage. 

I  afterwards  heard  the  history  of  Mrs.  Hahnemann. 
She  had  been  cured  by  her  husband  of  a  disease  which 
other  physicians  pronounced  necessarily  fatal.  Through 
gratitude,  she  bestowed  her  hand  upon  the  man  who  had 
saved  her  life.  Her  husband  taught  her  the  science  of 
medicine.  She  made  rapid  progress,  and  he  soon  pro 
nounced  his  wife  as  skilful  a  physician  as  himself.  "When 
he  became  infirm,  his  practice  was  left  almost  entirely 
in  her  hands. 

A  few  days  after  the  first  visit,  I  returned,  accom 
panied  by  Mr.  Mowatt.  Again  we  had  to  wait  several 
hours  in  the  antechambers ;  and,  when  admitted,  the 
interview  was  unsatisfactory.  After  but  a  short  trial 
of  the  medicines  prescribed,  his  sufferings  were  so  in 
tense  that  homoeopathy  was  abandoned,  and  Madame 

G 's  family  physician  called  in.  Four  months 

passed  on  and  brought  no  relief.  But  succor  came  at 
last  from  the  hands  of  an  eminent  American  surgeon, 

Dr.  M tt,  of  New  York.  One  fortnight  from  the 

day  when  he  first  undertook  the  case,  Mr.  Mowatt  was 
able  to  exchange  his  darkened  chamber  for  our  lightly- 


116       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

curtained  drawing  room.  What  a  day  of  joy  was  that 
on  which  he  took  his  first  walk  with  unbandaged  eyes 
upon  the  Champs  Elysees  !  What  a  moment  of  happi 
ness  when,  looking  over  my  shoulder  at  the  volume  I 
was  reading  aloud,  he  discovered  that,  for  the  first  time 
for  many  months,  his  eyes  could  distinguish  print ! 

With  a  keener  sense  of  enjoyment  than  I  had  ever 
yet  experienced,  I  now  mingled  with  the  gay  world,  and 
became  thoroughly  fascinated  with  Parisian  society.  A 
portion  of  every  morning  was  spent  in  visiting  antique 
palaces,  galleries  of  paintings,  and  various  curiosities  ; 
and  in  the  evening  we  often  attended  two  or  three  balls 
on  the  same  night.  We  also  frequented  the  theatre, 
opera,  concerts,  as  often  as  our  social  engagements 
would  permit.  Mr.  Mowatt  seldom  ventured  to  trust 
his  eyes  to  the  blaze  of  ball-room  chandeliers,  but  in 
sisted  upon  my  aunt  and  myself  accepting  every  agree 
able  invitation.  He  used  to  say  that  he  derived  more 
amusement  from  listening  to  our  humorous  descriptions 
than  he  could  have  derived  from  being  present.  The 
constant  habit  of  repeating  for  his  diversion  every  thing 
we  had  seen  and  heard,  soon  rendered  us  quite  accom 
plished  raconteurs. 

I  insert  the  following  description  of  a  fancy  ball, 

given  by  the  American  millionaire,  Colonel  T n, 

which  was  declared  to  be  the  most  charming  of  the 
many  we  attended.  The  account  was  written  by  me  at 
the  time  for  the  Ladies'  Companion :  — 

"  Of  all  the  magnificent  entertainments  which  Paris 
has  this  season  witnessed,  the  bal  costume,  given  at  the 

residence  of  Colonel  T n,  on  the  second  night  of  the 

carnival,  for  splendor  and  concentrated  variety  of  amuse 
ments,  bears  away  the  palm. 


BAL    COSTUME.  117 

"  Long  before  the  palace-like  mansion  of  Colonel 
T n  could  be  reached,  the  interminable  line  of  equi 
pages,  with  their  coronets  and  coats  of  arms,  the  liveried 
coachmen  in  front,  and  fancifully-dressed  chasseurs  be 
hind,  announced  what  guests  would  grace  his  entertain 
ment.  On  approaching  the  hotel,  some  fifty  gendarmes, 
well  mounted,  guarded  the  brilliantly-illumined  and 
spacious  court  yard,  while  the  canopied  porch  and  whole 
front  of  the  mansion  were  thronged  by  the  attendant 
domestics  of  the  visitors.  Alighting,  you  are  received 
by  some  twenty  footmen,  and  ushered  into  an  antecham 
ber,  the  centre  of  which  is  occupied  by  the  at  present 
fashionable  ornament,  a  handsome  billiard  table.  Pass 
ing  through  this  apartment,  you  are  loudly  announced 
at  the  door  of  the  reception  room,  where  stands  the 
ever-graceful  and  affable  hostess,  whose  very  smile 
makes  welcome,  and  whose  courteous  greeting  sheds 
ease  on  all  around. 

"  Twelve  gorgeous  saloons  were  thrown  open.  "Where 
the  uncouth  door  once  had  been,  costly  drapery  was  sus 
pended,  tastefully  gathered  in  folds  or  festoons  ;  the  car 
pets  of  velvet,  the  divans,  ottomans,  and  couches  were  all 
that  could  be  imagined  of  luxurious  and  beautiful.  The 
walls  were  fluted  with  gold  or  rich  silks,  and  hung  with 
the  works  of  the  first  masters ;  the  ceilings  painted  in  a 
thousand  devices.  One  apartment  raised  above  the 
others  overlooked  the  ball  room,  and  was  lined  with  a 
row  of  draperied  arches,  from  which  the  dancers  were 
viewed  to  the  greatest  advantage,  their  light  forms 
reflected  in  the  bright  mirrors  opposite,  which  covered 
one  entire  side  of  the  dancing  apartment.  The  thou 
sand  lights  shed  a  flood  of  brilliancy  which  would  almost 
have  eclipsed  sunshine ;  and  the  sparkling  of  diamonds 


118       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

arid  many-colored  gems  threw  a  lustre  around  almost 
painfully  dazzling. 

"And  the  varied,  the  charming,  the  voluptuously 
beautiful  costumes  !  When  Fashion,  whose  rigorous 
sway  clothes  the  hunchback  and  the  sylph  in  the  same 
garb,  forsook  her  throne,  what  taste,  what  art,  were  ex 
pended  to  set  forth  every  grace,  and  show  Beauty  robed 
in  all  her  charms,  heightened  by  adornments  which  only 
displayed  what  they  seemed  intended  to  conceal !  There 
were  sultans  and  sultanas,  queens  and  courtiers,  knights 
Templar  and  ladies  in  tournament  robes ;  the  goddess 
of  night,  wrapped  in  her  glittering  silver  stars,  and  the 
crescent  on  her  fair  brow,  one  bed  of  diamonds  ;  naiads 
and  nymphs  of  the  woods,  Anna  Boleyn,  and  Madame 
Pompadour.  Even  Joan  of  Arc  herself  forsook  the 
rude  field  to  enjoy  the  soft  pleasures  of  these  princely 
halls.  There  were  costumes  of  every  clime,  *  of  every 
land  where  woman  smiles  or  sighs.' 

"  It  would  have  employed  the  eyes  of  Argus  to  have 
scanned  them  all.  Soon  as  the  midnight  hour  arrived, 
the  swell  of  music  stole  upon  the  ear  from  the  exquisite 
band  of  fifty  musicians,  and  a  general  rush  was  made  to 
the  ball  room,  until  then  unopened.  A  large  circle 
drawn  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment  was  the  magic 
boundary  not  to  be  passed ;  but  the  throng  around  it 
was  inconceivably  dense  until  the  sound  of  horses'  feet 
was  heard ;  when  all  with  one  accord  drew  back  as  four 
fairy  steeds,  mounted  by  Cinderella  postilions,  drawing  a 
Queen  Mab  chariot  of  crimson  velvet,  with  golden  wheels, 
flew  twice  around  the  ring.  A  pair  of  lovely  shepherd 
esses,  placing  their  flower-wreathed  crooks  upon  the 
ground,  sprang  lightly  from  the  chariot,  and,  as  the  car 
and  its  outriders  disappeared,  moved  gracefully  round  in 


BAL    COSTUME.  119 

a  fanciful  pas  de  deux,  amidst  the  noisy  plaudits  of 
admiring  spectators.  The  guests  elevated  themselves 
on  sofas  and  couches,  sometimes  three  or  four  crowding 
together  on  the  small  and  delicately-shaped  chairs,  at 
the  imminent  risk  of  losing  their  balance  ;  while  a  host 
of  crushed  unfortunates  on  tiptoe  behind,  clinging  to 
those  raised  by  chance  (as  so  often  happens  in  the 
world)  above  them,  made  extremely  perilous  the  position 
of  both  parties  ;  thus  adding  much  to  the  excitement,  and, 
according  to  the  rule  that  Pleasure  is  enriched  by  sharing 
with  her  sister  Pain,  to  the  enjoyment,  of  the  scene. 

"  The  pretty  shepherdesses,  after  finishing  their 
graceful  evolutions,  were  put  to  flight  by  the  entrance 
of  some  fifteen  or  twenty  Turks,  knights,  and  Highland 
ers  on  horseback,  who,  after  going  ftirough  a  ludicrous 
contre  danse,  galloped  noiselessly  away  amidst  peals  of 
merriment,  which  must  have  drowned  the  trampling  of 
their  horses'  feet ;  for,  strange  to  say,  none  was  heard. 
Then  entered  Madame  Pompadour,  Louis  XV.  and 
his  court,  with  their  powdered  wigs  and  magnificent  jew 
elled  robes.  They  performed  with  much  spirit  the  old- 
fashioned  dances  of  their  age,  amongst  which  the  stately 
courtesying  minuet  called  forth  the  most  unbounded  ap 
plause.  It  were  in  vain  to  attempt  a  description  of  the 
series  of  dances  in  character  which  followed ;  each  and  all 
were  executed  with  mingled  taste  and  skill,  and  at  their 
close  the  giddy  waltz  and  gay  quadrille  were  merrily 
joined  in  by  the  company  in  general ;  and  brigands  flew 
round,  encircling  their  fair  captives  ;  Christians,  unmo 
lested,  stole  the  pride  of  the  Turkish  harems ;  and  shep 
herdesses  looked  happy  with  lords. 

"  When  dancing  had  tired  the  unwilling  feet  of  many 


120      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

an  enraptured  fair  one,  the  droll  queries  of  a  strolling 
manager,  and  pertinently  stupid  answers  of  liis  clown, 
forming  a  set  enigmas  or  charades,  gratefully  varied  the 
diversions.  A  handsome  supper  table,  filled  with  con 
fectionery,  was  accessible  the  whole  evening;  and  a 
little  past  midnight  the  rich  curtains  which  concealed 
a  spacious  apartment  were  thrown  back,  disclosing  the 
most  sumptuous  banqueting  board,  spread  w*ith  every 
delicacy  that  could  gratify  the  palate  or  satisfy  the  ap 
petite  ;  heavy  with  the  service  of  gold,  bright  with  the 
dazzling  radiancy  of  costly  candelabras,  and  the  mellow 
light  of  moonlight  lamps,  which  lined  the  gilded  walls, 
rich  with  such  ornaments  as  the  genius  of  Paris  alone 
could  execute.  The  table  itself  was  so  spacious  and 
long,  that,  reflectecftn  the  large  mirror  at  its  foot,  the 
eye  refused  to  reach  its  farther  end.  When  graced  on 
either  side  by  '  fair  women,'  who  seemed  to  have  been 
gathered  from  every  land,  lovely  relics  of  every  age, 
relieved  by  the  background- of  'brave  men,'  like  the  set 
ting  to  jewels,  what  more  splendid  sight  could  be  im 
agined  ? 

"  The  morning  had  far  advanced  before  the  courteous 
host  and  hostess  found  their  banquet  halls  deserted.  It 
proved,  indeed,  — 

'  No  sleep  till  morn,  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet.' 

But  a  gayer  festival,  with  more  agremens  and  less 
alloy  to  the  general  enjoyment,  may  seldom  again  be 
witnessed. 

"  The  cost  of  this  ball  is  currently  estimated  at  eight 
thousand  dollars.  One  lady  present  wore  so  many  dia- 


THE    CARNIVAL.  121 

moncls  (said  to  be  valued  at  two  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars)  that  she  was  escorted  in  her  carriage  by  gen 
darmes,  for  fear  of  robbery." 

Colonel  T 's  fancy  ball  was  given  on  the  second 

day  of  the  carnival.  The  celebration  of  the  Parisian 
carnival  does  not,  of  course,  approach  that  of  the  Ital 
ian,  yet  it  is  worthy  of  some  mention.  For  three  days 
Paris  empties  its  populace  into  the  streets,  and  every 
willing  head  wears  Folly's  cap  and  bells.  The  carni 
val  procession  consists,  of  a  cavalcade  followed  by 
infantry  in  the  uniform  of  their  respective  lands. 
Amongst  these  the  Chinese  are  the  most  singular. 
Then  comes  the  bceuf  gras,  an  immense  ox,  fattened 
to  almost  the  size  of  an  elephant,  led  by  three  butchers. 
Two  of  them  are  dressed  as  Romans,  crowned  with 
laurel,  and  bear  glittering  axes.  The  third  is  costumed 
as  an  Indian  chief.  All  three  of  them  look  as  though 
they  had  successfully  tried  upon  themselves  the  ex 
periment  to  which  their  contented-looking  victim  is 
indebted  for  its  enormous  proportions  and  present  dis 
tinction.  The  horns  of  the  ox  are  gilded  and  wreathed 
with  flowers,  and  its  huge  sides  caparisoned  with  a 
golden  cloth  wrought  with  fanciful  devices.  Following 
the  IxEitf  gras,  a  car  of  white  and  gold  is  drawn  by  four 
white  horses,  with  wreaths  of  flowers  about  their  necks, 
and  on  their  backs  saddlecloths  of  silver  and  gold 
The  car  is  filled  with  young  girls,  youths,  and  lovely 
children  in  the  garb  of  pagan  deities.  Old  Time,  with 
an  infant  in  his  arms,  drives  the  horses.  As  the  car 
passed  our  door,  a  rosy  Cupid  was  playfully  aiming  sil 
ver  arrows  at  his  youthful,  half-nude  mother,  Venus ; 
Apollo  was  lying  at  the  feet  of  one  of  the  Muses.  Pan 
entertained  another  with  his  rustic  pipe.  Vulcan  was 


122      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

busily  preparing  an  iron  net  to  entrap  the  lover  of  his 
wife,  and  Mars  was  laying  his  helmet  and  shield  at  the 
feet  of  Venus.  A  rich  canopy  suspended  over  the  car 
shielded  the  mythological  group  from  sun  or  rain.  The 
procession  ends  with  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  carriages, 
wagons,  and  market  carts,  all  filled  with  masqueraders, 
dressed  according  to  their  eccentric  fancies.  The  bceuf 
gras  pays  a  visit  to  the  king  and  certain  of  the  minis 
ters,  and  then  to  the  stall  of  the  butcher  to  whom  he 
owes  his  honors.  The  stall  is  hung  with  tricolored  rib 
bons  and  flowers.  In  front  of  it  the  procession  halts, 
and  the  health  of  the  butcher  is  drank  in  champagne, 
and  responded  to  with  cheers. 

While  this  ceremony  is  taking  place,  a  bountiful 
supply  of  cakes  is  flung  into  the  streets,  and  noisy 
urchins  scramble  for  their  possession.  From  early 
morning  until  late  at  night  the  Boulevards  and  all  the 
public  streets  are  thronged  with  masqueraders,  who  de 
light  the  crowd  with  ludicrous  feats,  and  sometimes 
enact  comic  characters  with  great  esprit.  The  domi 
noes  are  generally  supplied  with  bags  of  flour,  from 
which  they  pelt  indiscriminately  every  passer  by ;  but 
when  a  carriage  graced  by  ladies  stops  the  way,  bon 
bons  and  bouquets  are  showered  at  the  windows.  The 
masquerade  balls  commence  at  twelve  o'clock,  and, 
though  attended  by  the  aristocratic  portion  of  the  com 
munity  as  well  as  by  the  middle  classes,  they  are  too 
often  the  scenes  of  intrigue  and  boisterous  mirth,  though 
never  of  open  indecorum. 

During  our  stay  in  Paris,  General  C — ss  was  the 
residing  American  minister ;  and  he  and  his  agreeable 
family  were  alike  popular  with  the  French,  the  English, 
and  their  own  countrymen.  Their  entertainments  were 


RACHEL.  123 

strikingly  informal  and  unostentatious,  and  therefore  all 
the  more  delightful.  "We  could  not  but  enjoy  the 
touches  of  republicanism  which  were  now  and  then 
intermingled  with  aristocratic  usages.  The  attractions 
must  have  been  great  elsewhere  that  ever  induced  us  to 
forego  our  ambassador's  receptions  or  balls. 

Through  constant  mingling  in  Parisian  society,  we 
became  acquainted  with  various  distinguished  persons, 
whose  characters  and  peculiarities  I  should  take  delight 
in  sketching ;  but  I  only  feel  at  liberty  to  mention  those 
who  are  in  some  way  connected  with  my  own  histoiy. 

3Iy  history  at  this  period  was  simply  that  of  every 
day  fashionable  life,  and  the  interchange  of  civilities 
alone  threw  us  in  contact  with  those  who  had  won  fame 
and  honors  from  a  fastidious  public. 

I  saw  Rachel  in  her  principal  characters,  and  I  retain 
the  most  vivid  recollections  of  her  thrilling  impersona 
tions.  There  was  something  terrific,  something  over 
whelming,  in  them  all.  From  the  moment  she  came 
upon  the  stage,  I  was  always  under  the  influence  of  a 
spell.  Her  eyes  had  the  power  of  a  basilisk's  upon  me, 
and  flashed  with  an  intense  brightness  which  no  basi 
lisk's  eould  have  rivalled.  I  never  expect  to  see  that 
acting  equalled  —  to  surpass  it,  in  impassioned  force 
and  grandeur,  appears  to  me  impossible. 

Accident  made  me  acquainted  with  the  two  young 
sisters  of  Eachel.  They  were  then  at  school,  and  were 
receiving  a  liberal  education  at  the  expense  of  their 
elder  sister.  They  spoke  of  her  with  enthusiastic 
affection,  and  evidently  looked  forward  to  becoming  her 
successors  upon  the  stage  —  the  legitimate  inheritors  of 
her  genius. 

So  many  incidents   have  occurred  since  our  seven 


124       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

months'  visit  to  Paris,  that  various  events  of  deeper 
interest  have  nearly  obliterated  my  first  impressions  of 
the  gay  metropolis  —  of  its  thousand  works  of  art  and 
of  science,  and  of  its  beautiful  environs,  Versailles, 
St.  Clond,  &c.  I  do  not  therefore  attempt  to  imbody 
them  in  the  form  of  a  description.  The  following  ex 
tract  from  a  letter  addressed  to  a  younger  sister,  during 
the  early  part  of  our  sojourn  in  Paris,  may  not  be  with 
out  interest  to  youthful  readers  :  — 

"  What  surprises  me  most  in  Paris  is,  that,  with  its 
innumerable  luxuries,  it  lacks  the  air  of  comfort  which 
characterizes  England.  It  is  difficult  to  get  accustomed 
to  the  atmosphere  of  inconsistency  which  pervades 
every  thing.  Wealth  and  poverty,  mirth  and  misery, 
seem  to  walk  hand  in  hand.  Paris  reminds  me  of  a 
fine  woman  magnificently  attired,  with  soiled  gloves, 
rent  stockings,  and  worn-out  shoes.  There  is  always  a 
striking  incongruity  in  the  accessories  of  Parisian  mag 
nificence. 

"  Napoleon,  more  than  any  other  monarch,  adorned 
and  enriched  this  city.  He  planned  and  executed  — 
finished  what  had  been  begun,  and  altered  what  was 
badly  done.  He  did  not  confine  himself  to  the  erection 
of  public  buildings,  to  making  roads  and  raising  monu 
ments,  but  he  cultivated  the  arts  and  sciences,  and  fos 
tered  the  genius  of  his  countrymen.  The  facilities  for 
acquiring  knowledge  and  receiving  a  thorough  educa 
tion  can  nowhere  be  greater  than  in  this  metropolis. 
Public  lectures  on  all  subjects  are  daily  delivered  free 
of  cost,  and  liberal  instruction  is  bestowed  on  those  who 
would  devote  themselves  to  the  fine  arts.  The  Maison 
Royale  St.  Denis  is  devoted  to  the  education  of  the  sis 
ters,  daughters,  and  nieces  of  the  members  of  the 


AMERICAN    COPY    OF   PARISIAN   MANNERS.        125 

Legion  of  Honor  ;  and  hundreds  of  young  girls  yearly 
receive  a  classical  education  at  the  expense  of  the  gov 
ernment.  Their  discipline  is  said  to  be  particularly 
gentle.  They  wear  a  uniform  of  black. 

"  Poverty  is  not  here  considered  to  be  so  nearly  a 
crime  as  it  is  with  us  and  in  England.  Talents,  edu 
cation,  manners,  even  personal  attractions,  are  placed 
before  riches.  Admission  into  good  society  may  be 
commanded  by  these,  while  with  us  the  entrance  is  too 
often  purchasable. 

"  The  customs  and  fashions  which  we  imitate  as  Pa-> 
risian  are  not  unfrequently  mere  caricatures  of  those 
that  exist  in  Paris.  For  instance,  it  is  the  present 
mode  not  to  introduce  persons  who  meet  at  parties  or  in 
visiting,  but  the  custom  is  intended  to  obviate  the  cere- 
moniousness  of  formal  introductions.  Every  one  is 
expected  to  talk  to  his  neighbor  ;  and  if  mutual  pleas 
ure  is  received  from  the  intercourse,  an  acquaintance  is 
formed.  The  same  fashion  in  vogue  with  us  renders 
society  cold  and  stiff.  We  abolish  introductions  because 
the  Parisians  do  so ;  but  we  only  take  this  first  step  in 
our  transatlantic  imitations.  Few  persons  feel  at  liberty 
to  address  strangers.  Little,  contracted  circles  of  friends 
herd  in  clannish  groups  together,  and  mar  the  true  ob 
ject  of  society.  As  yet,  we  only  follow  the  fashions ; 
we  do  not  conceive  the  spirit  which  dictated  them. 

"  So  in  our  mode  of  dressing.  Expensive  materials, 
worn  here  only  at  balls,  are  imported  by  American  mer 
chants  and  pronounced  to  be  *  very  fashionable  in  Paris.' 
They  are  universally  bought  by  our  belles,  who,  instead 
of  wearing  them  at  proper  seasons,  parade  the  streets 
in  what  is  meant  exclusively  for  evening  costume. 

"  Are  we  not  as  yet  merely  a  nation  of  experiment- 


126      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

ers  ?  Houses  are  built  in  a  few  weeks,  to  fall  in  a  few 
more ;  fortunes  are  made  in  a  day,  to  be  lost  in  another. 
We  are  like  children  working  their  samplers,  who 
make  hundreds  of  mistakes,  and  destroy  their  work 
many  times  before  they  can  perform  it  aright. 

"  You  have  always  heard  and  read  that  the  French 
nation  were  noted  for  their  suavity  of  manners,  gayety 
of  heart,  and  extreme  politeness.  But  since  the  turbu 
lent  louleversements  that  have  agitated  France,  and 
especially  since  the  last  revolution,  this  spirit,  it  is  said, 
has  changed.  The  men,  in  particular,  are  not  so  gay 
as  they  were,  because  their  pursuit  is  not  now  so  en 
tirely  that  of  pleasure.  They  ponder  public  contin 
gencies  more  deeply,  and  France  is  not  happy.  All  — 
both  men  and  women  —  are  politicians,  and  maintain 
their  ground  with  a  firmness  which  leads  to  long  dis 
cussions.  Both  parties  become  easily  excited,  and  court 
liness  of  speech  and  manner  are  too  oftep  forgotten. 

"  The  king,  Louis  Philippe,  is  not  beloved.  So  fearfnl 
is  he  of  another  attempt  upon  his  life,  that  he  is  scarcely 
ever  seen  in  public.  Paris  is  divided  by  the  River 
Seine.  On  one  side  is  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries, 
where  the  king  resides.  On  the  opposite  side  dwell  the 
proud  scions  of  the  noble  families  of  France.  This 
society,  called  the  St.  Germain,  is  much  more  select, 
and  far  more  difficult  of  access,  than  the  court  itself. 
In  the  circles  of  the  St.  Germain,  the  old  style  of  ad 
dress  and  ancient  ceremonies  of  the  splendid  age  of 
Louis  XIV.  are  adhered  to  and  revered. 

"  It  strikes  a  stranger  in  Paris  that  half  the  city  is 
composed  of  magnificent  shops.  The  private  dwellings 
are  above  them.  Every  family  hires  a  floor,  and  this 
manner  of  living  is  considered  perfectly  respectable  — 


PLACE    LOUIS    QUIXZE.  127 

even  fashionable.  I  was  amused  with  the  fanciful 
titles  given  to  these  magazines  —  such  as  Aux  Pain-res 
Dialles,  A  la  Balayeuse,  A  la  Pensee,  A  la  jeune 
Anglaise,  &c. 

"  Les  Passages,  with  which  the  city  abounds,  are  the 
most  pleasant  places  where  one  can  shop  on  foot.  The 
houses  are  built  over  long  arches,  beneath  which  runs 
a  sheltered  promenade,  lined  on  both  sides  with  bou 
tiques.  These  promenades  are  called  passages.  They 
are  more  or  less  splendid,  according  to  the  quarter  of 
the  city  in  which  they  are  situated. 

"  Of  all  the  beautiful  squares  with  which  the  city  is 
adorned,  the  first  and  most  magnificent  is  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde,  or  Place  Louis  Quinze,  as  it  is  generally 
called.  Many  terrible  catastrophes  have  rendered  this 
spot  famous ;  amongst  them  the  execution  of  Louis 
XVI.,  and  hundreds  of  other  unfortunates  known 
to  fame  and  history.  From  every  side  of  this  place 
there  is  a  charming  view.  Standing  in  the  centre,  you 
behold  two  majestic  buildings,  with  an  arcade  walk 
running  in  front  of  them,  formed  of  Corinthian  columns ; 
and  in  the  distance  appears  the  chaste  and  lovely  Church 
of  la  Madeleine.  To  the  east  are  the  Champs  Elyse'es, 
and  between  the  noble  avenues  of  trees  rises  the  tri 
umphal  arch  of  Napoleon,  called  L'Arc  de  Triomphe 
de  TEtoile.  On  the  west  is  the  garden  of  the  Tui- 
leries,  and  on  the  south  may  be  seen  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  ;  also  a  line  of  costly  edifices  running  along 
the  banks  of  the  Seine,  and,  peering  above  them,  the 
dome  of  the  Invalides.  In  the  centre  of  the  square  is 
the  obelisk  of  Luxor,  which  stood  before  the  temple  of 
Thebes,  and  was  introduced  by  the  French  government 
from  Egypt.  It  is  an  immense  pyramid-like  column, 


128       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  ON  AN  ACTRESS. 

slightly  broken  at  the  top,  and  covered  with  hiero 
glyphics.  It  took  eight  hundred  men  three  months  to 
remove  it  from  its  former  station.  To  accomplish  this, 
a  road  to  the  Nile  had  to  be  made,  and  numbers  of 
Arab  dwellings,  which  intercepted  its  path,  or  were 
built  against  its  base,  had  to  be  levelled  to  the  ground. 
On  either  side  of  this  venerable  monument  are  two  in 
genious  fountains,  not  quite  completed.  The  square  is 
filled  with  statues,  and  in  the  evening  brilliantly  illu 
minated  by  a  quantity  of  gilded  lamps  raised  on  fluted 
columns  of  glittering  fretwork. 

"  The  Place  Vendome  is  another  celebrated  square, 
in  the  centre  of  which  shoots  up  a  triumphal  pillarr, 
erected  by  Napoleon  in  honor  of  his  German  cam 
paign  of  1805.  It  is  built  in  imitation  of  Trajan's  Pillar 
at  Rome,  and  is  said  to  have  been  formed  of  the  cannon 
taken  by  Napoleon  in  battle.  On  the  pedestal  are  re 
presented  in  bas  relief  the  victories  of  Napoleon,  and 
on  the  top  stands  a  statue  of  the  great  emperor.  A 
winding  staircase  leads  to  the  terrace  above  the  column, 
which,  being  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet  high,  com 
mands  a  fine  view  of  the  city.  The  ascent  is  totally 
dark,  and  each  visitor  carries  a  lantern,  presented  to 
him  by  one  of  Napoleon's  veteran  soldiers,  who  guards 
the  entrance. 

"The  Place  du  Carrousel  is  named  after  a  great  tour 
nament  held  there  in  the  golden  age  of  Louis  XIV. 
It  was  here  also  that  the  infernal  machine  exploded  in 
1800. 

"  I  was  particularly  charmed  with  the  fountains, 
which  are  scattered  all  over  Paris,  and  supply  the  city 
with  water.  They  play  at  certain  hours  of  the  day, 
and  the  water  is  caught  in  buckets  and  barrels,  and 


FOUNTAINS.  129 

sold  by  the  poor  to  the  rich.  The  Fontaine  de  Leda  rep 
resents  Jupiter  in  the  shape  of  a  swan  approaching  the 
pleased  and  astonished  Leda.  The  water  flows  from 
the  beak  of  the  swan.  The  Fountain  of  Mars  repre 
sents  the  Goddess  of  Health  holding  a  draught  of  water 
to  the  lips  of  a  dying  soldier,  who  revives  as  he  drinks. 
The  fountain  in  the  Place  du  Chatelet  is  a  circular 
basin,  from  the  centre  of  which  springs  a  palm  tree,  en 
circled  by  statues  representing  Justice,  Strength,  Pru 
dence,  and  Vigilance.  On  the  shaft  of  the  column  are 
inscribed  the  names  of  Napoleon's  conquests.  The 
water  issues  from  cornucopia?,  which  terminate  in 
fishes'  heads.  Above  are  heads  representing  the 
winds ;  in  the  midst  is  a  globe,  supported  by  a  gilded 
statue  of  Victory.  I  have  mentioned  those  of  the  foun 
tains  which  particularly  struck  me ;  there  are  many 
others  of  equal  beauty. 

"  I  must  not  pass  over  without  mention  what  we 
took  delight  in  passing  under  a  few  days  ago  —  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe  de  1'Etoile,  a  vast  central  arch, 
ninety  feet  in  height,  graced  by  piers  on  either  side  sup 
porting  an  entablature  and  attic.  Upon  a  pedestal  from 
each  of  these  piers  rise  groups  of  allegorical  figures. 
On  the  internal  sides  of  the  piers  are  inscribed  the  titles 
of  victories  won  by  France.  The  arch  is  pierced  by  a 
transversal  arch,  engraven  with  the  names  of  great 
warriors.  This  arch  was  commenced  by  Napoleon,  and 
finished  by  Louis  Philippe.  Within  the  monument,  a 
staircase  in  each  pier  leads  to  three  stories  of  apart 
ments,  as  yet  unappropriated  to  any  use.  After  the 
nuptials  of  the  Emperor  with  Marie  Louise,  the  arch 
not  being  completed,  an  immense  model  in  wood  and 
canvas  was  erected,  decorated,  and  illuminated.  The 
9 


130      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

emperor,  entering  Paris,  drove  through  in  triumph  with 
his  bride. 

"  Paris  is  surrounded  by  bar-rieres,  to  prevent  the  in 
troduction  of  contraband  goods.  Some  of  them  are 
very  splendid  edifices,  resembling  in  form  the  Arc  de 
1'Etoile  —  also  called  Barriere  de  1'Etoile.  But  these 
will  scarcely  interest  you. 

"  The  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  with  its  vast  groves, 
its  charming  flower  gardens,  its  fountains,  its  groups  of 
statues  lining  every  walk,  you  must  often  have  heard 
described.  I  will  but  mention  the  classic  groups  before 
which  we  most  frequently  pause.  One  is  composed  of 
the  chaste  Lucretia,  supported  by  her  horror-stricken 
husband.  Her  young  children  are  clinging  to  her  robe, 
while  she,  with  expiring  breath,  recounts  her  wrongs, 
and  draws  the  dagger  from  her  bleeding  breast.  My 
other  favorite  is  Atalanta  flying  before  Hippomenes  — 
he  flings  the  golden  gifts  of  Venus  at  her  feet  to  retard 
her  flight,  and  wins  the  goal  and  the  coy  nymph  for 
his  own. 

"  With  the  Champs  Elysees  I  was  somewhat  disap 
pointed.  To  be  sure,  there  are  vast  avenues  of  noble 
trees,  which  form  pleasant  and  sheltered  promenades ; 
but  the  old  women  with  their  cake  and  apple  stands, 
and  the  old  men  with  one  arm  (supposed  to  be  ampu 
tated)  hidden  in  their  coats,  and  a  large  black  patch 
over  one  eye,  and  the  numerous  little  terrestrial-look 
ing  cafes,  remind  one  that  this  Elysium  is  but  of  the 
earth. 

"  The  Bois  de  Boulogne,  the  famous  rendezvous  for 
duellists,  is  a  large  forest,  always  gay  with  splendid 
equipages  and  richly-dressed  promenaders,  and  is  the 
most  fasionable  drive  in  Paris." 


A   DRAMA    COMMENCED.  131 

In  spite  of  the  gay  life  which  we  led  iii  the  French 
metropolis,  my  habits  of  study  were  not  wholly  aban 
doned.  An  Italian  teacher  paid  me  visits  every  morn 
ing,  and  the  previous  night's  dissipations  never  pre 
vented  my  taking  a  lesson  before  breakfast.  Nor  did  I 
cease  to  find  pleasure  in  writing.  I  commenced  a  little 
drama  in  six  acts,  (the  peculiarities  of  the  plot  made  five, 
as  I  thought,  an  impossible  number,)  designed  for  pri 
vate  representation.  We  were  to  give  a  fete  on  our 
return  to  America,  and  the  play  was  to  be  enacted  at 
Melrose  by  my  sisters  and  myself.  It  was  written  in 
blank  verse,  (or,  at  least,  what  I  imagined  to  be  blank 
verse,)  the  scenery  was  painted  by  Parisian  artists 
under  my  direction,  and  some  of  the  principal  dresses, 
which  were  exceedingly  rich,  were  made  by  Parisian 
costumers.  The  play  was  entitled  Gulzara,  or  the  Per 
sian  Slave.  It  was  nearly  completed  when  we  left 
Paris. 

At  Havre  we  took  passage  in  the  ship  Ville  de  Lyons, 
under  the  command  of  Captain  Stoddart,  and  sailed  for 
America. 


CHAPTER   VII. 


A  Play  without  Heroes.  —  Rehearsals.  —  Incident  in  the  Barn.  — 
Gulzara,  or  the  Persian  Slave.  —  Publication  of  Play.  —  Cri 
tique  from  New  World.  —  Fondness  for  Speculations.  — Loss 
of  Property  and  litter  Ruin.  —  Musings  in  the  Arbor.  —  My  Sister 
Charlotte.  —  A  Project.  —  Preparations  for  a  new  Career.  —  The 
last  Farewell  to  a  beloved  Home. 


OUR  sojourn  in  a  foreign  land  had  not  rendered 
America  less  dear.  Our  own  home  never  looked  to  me 
more  beautiful  than  when,  as  I  leaned  from  the  carriage 
window,  I  beheld  it  through  the  long  avenue  of  trees, 
after  our  fifteen  months'  absence.  I  pass  over  the  joy 
ous  greetings  of  kindred  and  friends,  and  come  to  the 
fete  which  was  to  celebrate  our  return.  The  play  was 
rapidly  completed  ;  but  I  had  had  some  formidable  diffi 
culties  to  overcome  in  its  construction.  We  objected  to 
admit  gentlemen  into  our  corps  dramatique,  —  to  say 
the  least,  their  presence  was  an  inconvenience,  —  yet 
our  youthful  company  wished  to  avoid  assuming  male 
attire.  I  must  write  them  a  play  without  heroes.  To 
suit  these  caprices  I  invented  a  plot,  the  scene  of  which 
vyas  laid  within  the  walls  of  a  harem.  Sultan  Suliman, 
the  hero,  is  absent  in  the  wars,  and  though  he  in  reality 
plays  an  important  part  in  the  drama,  and  is  kept  con 
stantly  in  the  minds  of  the  audience,  he  never  appears. 
His  newly-purchased  slave  Gulzara  is  the  heroine. 
The  other  characters  are  his  daughter  Zulieka, 
Fatima,  her  companion,  Katinka,  an  attendant,  and 

(132) 


.A/*  V  t-rr^r  a  <C 

'          9 

INCIDENT   IN   THE   BARN.  133 

Ayesha,  the  villain  of  the  piece,  who  has  received  a 
great  wrong  at  the  hands  of  the  sultan,  and,  during 
his  absence,  seeks  revenge.  The  only  male  character 
is  that  of  the  sultan's  son  Amurath,  a  boy  ten  years 
old.  This  character  was  written  for  little  Julia,  and  I 
expended  all  the  ability  I  possessed  in  making  the  part 
one  that  would  afford  ample  scope  for  the  display  of  her 
brilliant  talents.  It  was  a  part  in  which  she  could 
fairly  compete  with  Gulzara,  (which  I  enacted,)  and, 
as  the  sequel  proved,  could  bear  away  the  palm. 

To  facilitate  rehearsals,  our  little  corps  dramatique 
were  invited  to  take  up  their  residence  with  me  for  a 
month  previous  to  the  representation  of  the  play.  Many 
an  amusing  incident  broke  in  upon  our  preparations. 
During  the  rehearsal  of  certain  scenes,  we  were  inva 
riably  interrupted  by  sudden  fits  of  laughter  from  the 
actors,  and  I  could  never  get  them  through  other  scenes 
(one  in  particular)  without  allowing  them  to  pause  and 
weep  ;  and  these  were  not  stage  tears,  but  genuine  out 
bursts  of  girlish  feeling. 

Screaming  musically  and  fainting  gracefully,  we  at 
first  pronounced  impossible  accomplishments  —  heights 
of  histrionic  excellence  not  to  be  reached !  To  avoid 
alarming  the  rest  of  the  family,  we  practised  these  por 
tions  of  our  art  in  an  old  barn  at  a  distance  from  the 
house.  Each  one  in  turn  would  give  a  long,  loud 
shriek,  and  the  clearest  sound  was  to  be  imitated  by  the 
character  who  had  to  scream.  Then  the  fainting  must 
be  practised.  We  could  fall  upon  beds  of  hay,  but 
dared  not  trust  ourselves  to  sink  into  each  other's  arms, 
for  fear  of  a  fall  indeed.  Amid  shouts  of  laughter,  we 
were  one  day  making  experiments  in  the  most  effective 
manner  of  becoming  insensible,  when  an  unexpected 


134       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

peal  of  merriment,  mingling  with  ours,  sounded  above 
our  heads  !  We  looked  up  and  beheld  in  the  haylofts 
an  assemblage  of  laborers,  who  had  been  enjoying  un- 
perccived  our  dramatic  exercises,  and  could  no  longer 
restrain  their  mirth.  With  one  accord  our  whole  party 
took  flight,  and  were  seen  in  the  barn  no  more. 

It  was  my  desire  that  the  fete  should  be  given  upon 
our  father's  birthday ;  but  as  Flatbush  was  four  miles 
from  New  York,  we  were  obliged  to  wait  for  moonlight 
nights,  that  our  guests  might  not  have  a  country  drive 
in  the  dark. 

Our  Parisian  scenery  worked  admirably.  It  was 
changed  for  each  act.  The  most  critical  observer  could 
hardly  have  found  fault  with  the  miniature  theatre. 
We  had  all  the  appurtenances  of  the  stage,  even  to 
footlights,  and  the  regulations  I  instituted  were  tolerably 
systematic.  I  seemed  to  possess  some  intuitive  knowl 
edge  of  the  mysteries  of  stage  management.  The  night 
before  that  on  which  the  play  was  to  take  place  we  had 
a  dress  rehearsal,  and  every  one  was,  in  stage  parlance, 
"  dead-letter  perfect "  in  her  part. 

The  fete  day  came.  With  the  assistance  of  my 
young  dramatic  company,  the  house  was  profusely 
decorated  with  garlands  of  flowers.  Bowers  were 
formed  out  of  forest  trees  cut  down  for  the  purpose, 
and  vases,  placed  in  every  possible  and  impossible  niche 
or  corner,  were  filled  with  the  plunder  of  the  green 
house  and  garden.  Numerous  friends  contributed 
largely  to  this  floral  exhibition.  When  we  commenced 
our  labors  in  the  morning,  several  tables  were  literally 
heaped  with  mountains  of  flowers.  At  night  the  avenue 
of  trees  leading  to  the  house  was  brilliantly  illuminated, 
and  the  moon  we  had  politely  waited  for,  in  return, 


GULZARA.  135 

courteously  lent  us  her  light.  The  guests  assembled  at 
an  early  hour,  and  were  received  by  their  host.  The 
hostess  was  busied  transforming  herself  into  a  Persian 
slave,  and  adorning  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  se 
raglio. 

At  the  hour  designated  in  the  programme,  which  had 
been  enclosed  in  every  invitation,  an  overture  was 
played  by  a  full  band  of  music  stationed  in  the  hall. 
(We  had  to  alter  the  usual  locality  of  the  orchestra.) 
The  curtain  rose  upon  a  chamber  in  the  harem,  where 
sat  Zulieka,  embroidering,  and  Fatima  at  her  feet.  It 
seemed  to  me  five  minutes,  though  probably  it  was  not 
more  than  one,  before  our  Zulieka  (my  sister  ^Vlay) 
could  gain  courage  to  utter  the  first  words  of  her  part. 
When  at  last  she  spoke,  it  was  in  a  low  and  trembling 
voice,  scarcely  audible.  I  held  my  breath  until  the 
sound  fell  on  my  ears,  and  drew  it  again  with  a  sensa 
tion  of  inexpressible  relief  as  her  self-possession  gradu 
ally  returned.  There  was  no  laughing  as  at  our 
rehearsals ;  and,  when  the  actors  persisted  in  crying, 
the  audience  kindly  kept  them  company,  and  I  did  not 
chide  as  on  former  occasions.  Every  one  played  be 
yond  my  expectations,  but  the  gem  of  the  evening  was 
the  exquisite  performance  of  little  Julia  as  the  sultan's 
son  Amurath.  Almost  every  sentence  she  uttered 
drew  down  genuine  bursts  of  applause  ;  and  with  the 
skill  of  a  thorough  artist,  she  made  us  laugh  or  weep  at 
will  while  she  retained  her  own  composure.  I  exerted 
myself  to  the  utmost  in  scenes  where  we  played  together, 
but  my  judgment  told  me  that  Amurath  threw  Gulzara 
into  the  shade. 

As  I  stood  upon  the  stage,  the  audience  were  so  near 
us  that  I  could  see  my  father's  noble  form,  his  majestic 


136       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

forehead,  and  snow-white  hair.  I  could  see  his  eyes  fixed 
intently  upon  his  children,  in  turn,  and  more  than  once  my 
heart  beat  high  as  I  saw  him  smile  and  bow  with  a  flat 
tered  expression  as  some  of  our  guests  leaned  forward  to 
whisper  their  comments  in  his  ears.  Whenever  Julia 
spoke,  his  face  lighted  up  with  an  expression  of  almost 
rapture  ;  and  when  I  had  impassioned  lines  to  deliver, 
he  would  gaze  at  me  thoughtfully,  drinking  in  each 
word,  as  though  he  were  weighing  my  power  against 
hers.  * 

The  play  lasted  about  two  hours  and  a  half,  and  then 
came  to  a  happy  termination.  No  untoward  accident 
marred  the  smoothness  of  the  representation.  The 
scenery  was  rapidly  removed,  the  theatre  converted 
into  a  reception  room,  the  ball  room  thrown  open,  and, 
in  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time  when  the  cur 
tain  fell,  the  occupants  of  Sultan  Suliman's  seraglio 
were  merrily  threading  the  dance,  without  a  trace  of 
their  late  sorrows  visible  upon  their  countenances. 

The  play  was  afterwards  published  in  the  New 
World.  Several  very  complimentary  criticisms  ap 
peared,  but  as  they  were  written  by  parties  present  at 
the  performance,  I  must  attribute  them  to  the  couleur-de- 
rose  medium  through  which  friendship  is  apt  to  look. 
There  was  one,  however,  written  by  the  editor  of  the 
New  World,  which  I  quote  as  the  most  gratifying  to  me 
at  the  time,  inasmuch  as  the  writer  was  unacquainted 
with  me,  and,  as  I  flattered  myself,  could  have  no  bias 
inconsistent  with  critical  impartiality :  — 
*  "  The  drama  of  Gulzara,  or  the  Persian  Slave,  was 
written  by  a  young  lady  lovely  and  accomplished. 
There  is  a  unity  and  simplicity  in  its  design  and  execu 
tion  which  cannot  fail  to  give  sincere  pleasure.  It  is 


A    CHANGE.  137 

pervaded  by  rare  and  delicate  thought ;  many  passages. 
are  strikingly  beautiful;  and  the  impartial  critic  will 
think,  with  us,  that  the  drama  would  do  credit  to  a  much 
more  experienced  writer." 

The  ball  I  have  just  described  was  the  last  ever 
given  at  Melrose.  The  glorious  sunset  that  closed  on 
the  days  of  our  happiness  ushered  in  but  storms  with 
the  morrow. 

From  the  time  of  our  return  to  America,  Mr. 
Mowatt  was  forced  to  abandon  his  profession,  on  ac 
count  of  the  affection  in  his  eyes.  He  could  neither 
use  them  to  read  nor  to  write  except  for  a  few  minutes 
at  a  time.  He  always  had  a  fondness  for  speculations 
in  land,  stocks,  &c.,  which,  in  the  absence  of  other  em 
ployment,  grew  into  a  fatal  passion.  Pie  made  great 
ventures,  sometimes  reaping  large  profits,  sometimes 
meeting  with  heavy  losses.  Of  these  speculations  I  at 
first  knew  little  or  nothing,  but  I  could  not  help  noticing 
the  fitful  changes  that  came  over  his  mental  horizon. 

At  times  he  suffered  from  deep  depression  not  natural*-/ 
to  his  temperament,  while  at  other  times  he  was  elated 
to  a  degree  that  equally  astonished  me.  In  one  of 
those  crises  which  convulse  the  whole  mercantile  world, 
(I  use  the  language  which  I  heard  him  use  to  Mary 
Howitt,)  he  was  utterly  ruined.  Almost  the  whole  of 
his  fortune  was  swept  away  in  a  few  days.  At  first  he 
concealed  from  me  the  serious  nature  of  his  losses,  and 
it  was  long  before  I  divined  their  extent.  But  our  ex 
penses  must  be  retrenched  —  our  mode  of  living  altered 
—  our  country  home,  to  which  I  was  so  devotedly 
attached,  must  be  sold ! 

This  intelligence  was  communicated  to  me  in  the  most 
gentle  manner.  As  soon  as  I  could  recover  from  the 


138      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

first  bewildering  shock,  my  earnest  question  to  Mr. 
Mowatt  was,  "  Is  there  no  possible  means  of  saving  this 
house  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  can  imagine,"  was  his  dejected  answer. 

"  How  long  may  we  remain  here  ?  " 

"  A  month  perhaps  —  certainly  not  longer." 

"  And  where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows  ! " 

I  had  never  before  heard  the  sound  of  despair  in  his 
tones. 

Misfortune  sprinkles  ashes  on  the  head  of  the  man, 
but  falls  like  dew  upon  the  heart  of  the  woman,  and 
brings  forth  germs  of  strength  of  which  she  herself  had 
no  conscious  possession. 

That  afternoon  I  walked  alone  for  a  long  time  in  the 
lovely  arbor  that  had  been  erected  for  my  pleasure.  It 
was  a  magnificent  day  in  autumn.  The  grapes  were 
hanging  in  luxuriant  purple  clusters  above  my  head. 
The  .  setting  sun  could  scarcely  penetrate  their  leafy 
canopy  of  darkest,  richest  green.  They  seemed  to 
typify  abundance,  peace,  prosperity  !  Eve's  "  Must 
I  leave  thee,  paradise  ?  "  found  its  echo  in  my  innermost 
heart.  I  sat  down  in  my  favorite  summer  house,  and 
strange  thoughts  came  into  my  head.  At  first  they 
were  vague  and  wild,  but  out  of  the  chaos  gradually 
grew  distinctness  and  order.  I  thought  of  my  eldest  sister 
Charlotte.  Her  gift  was  for  miniature  painting.  When 
the  rude  storms  of  adversity  had  shipwrecked  her  hus 
band,  she  had  braved  the  opposition  of  her  friends,  of 
the  world,  and  converted  what  had  been  a  mere  accom 
plishment  into  the  means  of  support  for  herself  and  her 
children.  In  the  Academy  of  Drawing  at  Paris  she  had 
been  awarded  a  high  prize  amid  hundreds  of  native 


MUSINGS    IN    THE   AEBOR.  "139 

competitors,  although  her  name  was  unknown.  Toiling 
ever,  but  ever  with  a  cheerful  spirit,  she  had  gone  on 
her  pilgrimage  rejoicing  —  overcoming  trials  with  pa 
tient  endurance,  and  reaping  a  priceless  reward  in  the 
midst  of  many  struggles. 

Were  there  no  gracious  gifts  within  my  nature? 
Had  I  no  talents  I  could  use  ?  Had  a  life  made  up  of 
delightful  associations  and  poetic  enjoyments  unfitted 
me  for  exertion?  Xo  —  there  was  something  strong 
within  me  that  cried  out,  It  had  not!  "What,  then, 
could  I  do  to  preserve  our  home  ?  I  had  talents  for 
acting  —  I  could  go  upon  the  stage ;  but  that  thought 
only  entered  my  mind  to  be  instantly  rejected.  The 
idea  of  becoming  a  professional  actress  was  revolt 
ing. 

The  elder  Yandenhoff  had  just  given  a  successful 
course  of  readings  in  Xew  York.  I  had  been  present 
on  several  evenings.  His  hah1  was  crowded,  and  his 
audieixces  were  highly  gratified.  I  could  give  public 
readings.  I  had  often  read  before  large  assemblages  of 
friends  —  that  required  not  a  little  courage.  With  a 
high  object  in  view,  I  should  gain  enough  additional 
courage  to  read  before  strangers.  True,  I  could  not 
judge  what  actual  powers  I  possessed,  what  amount  of 
talent ;  but  the  praises  to  which  I  had  listened  could  not 
all  be  mere  flattery.  I  would  not  allow  my  thoughts  to 
dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  possibility  of  failure.  While 
I  still  sat  in  the  little  summer  house,  a  bold  resolution 
was  suddenly  formed.  I  reflected  that 

"  Not  fortune's  slave  is  man ;  our  state 
Enjoins,  while  firm  resolves  await 
On  wishes  just  and  wise, 
That  strenuous  action  follow  both." 


140       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

I  would  read  in  public.  I  had  long  enough  been  the 
child  of  indulgence,  ease,  and  pleasure.  I  would 

"  Wake  up,  and  be  doing, 
Life's  heroic  ends  pursuing." 

It  was  almost  dark  when  my  dreamings  ended,  and  I 
returned  to  the  house. 

There  were  deep  shadows  upon  the  faces  of  Mr. 
Mowatt  and  my  sister  May,  (who  was  still  the  beloved 
companion  of  our  home,)  as  we  three  sat  down  to  the 
tea  table  ;  but  I  was  more  than  usually  merry,  and  now 
and  then  succeeded  in  calling  a  smile  to  the  lips  of  one 
or  the  other.  Several  times  Mr.  Mowatt  looked  at  me 
in  astonishment.  It  was  for  my  sake  far  more  than  for 
his  own  that  he  lamented  his  reverses.  He  feared  pri 
vations  for  me  —  not  for  himself.  He  valued  his  wealth 
because  it  had  ministered  to  my  comforts,  surrounded 
me  with  luxuries,  and  fostered  my  tastes.  His  own  en 
joyments  were  of  a  simple  nature.  I  answered  his 
wondering  glances  with  mysterious  looks,  and  waited 
impatiently  until  my  young  sister  retired.  Then  I  told 
him  of  my  musings  in  the  arbor — of  my  hopes  —  of 
my  convictions  —  of — could  I  but  gain  his  consent  — 
my  fixed  determination  !  His  surprise  was  at  first  too 
great  for  him  to  offer  any  opposition.  I  made  good  use 
of  this  vantage  ground  gained,  and  overwhelmed  him 
with  arguments,  until  my  confident  spirit  had  so 
thoroughly  infused  itself  into  his,  that  he  suggested  but 
one  objection  —  the  delicacy  of  my  health.  I  combated 
that  by  declaring,  and  with  truth,  that  I  felt  an  inner 
strength  hitherto  unknown.  I  was  sure  that  strength 
would  sustain  me  under  all  emergencies. 

Midnight  found  us  still  discussing  my  new  project ; 


PREPARATION  FOR  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE.   141 

but  before  I  rose  to  retire,  I  had  gained  his  consent. 
My  slumbers  were  as  peaceful  that  night  as  at  the  close 
of  the  calmest  and  happiest  of  the  many  happy  days 
that  had  seen  me  sink  to  repose  beneath  that  beloved 
roof. 

Once  determined  upon  my  course,  I  lost  no  time  in 
carrying  my  intentions  into  execution.  The  very  next 
morning  I  made  selections  from  favorite  poets,  —  many 
of  them  the  same  that  I  had  heard  Vandenhoff  read,  — 
and  commenced  strengthening  my  voice  by  reading 
aloud  for  a  couple  of  hours  each  day  in  the  open  air. 
I  allowed  myself  one  fortnight  to  make  all  necessary 
preparations  for  my  new  and  hazardous  career. 

I  shrank  from  appearing  in  New  York  in  the  midst 
of  my  own  extensive  circle  of  relatives  and  friends.  I 
did  not  desire  the  support  which  they  might  have 
yielded  through  personal  sympathy.  My  powers  could 
only  be  justly  tested  among  strangers.  Boston  had 
been  pronounced  the  most  intellectual  city  of  the  Union 
—  the  American  Athens.  There  is  always  more  le 
niency  towards  the  efforts  of  a  novice  where  there  is  true 
taste.  I  would  make  my  first  appearance  in  Boston. 
A  literary  friend,  to  whom  Mr.  Mowatt  confided  our 
intentions,  furnished  us  with  valuable  letters  of  intro 
duction.  Their  influence,  while  it  could  not  insure  my 
success,  would  command  for  me  a  favorable  hearing. 

Every  day  I  practised  my  voice,  reciting  aloud  for 
hours  in  the  vine-covered  arbor,  where  I  had  cast  aside 
the  dark  mantle  of  despair,  and  put  on  the  life-giving 
robes  of  hope.  I  was  greatly  encouraged  to  find  how 
rapidly  every  tone  was  strengthened,  with  what  increas 
ing  enthusiasm  I  read,  and  how  a  confidence  in  my  own 
success  sprang  up  at  these  auguries. 


142      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

It  was  a  most  trying  duty  to  make  my  intended 
debut  known  to  my  family.  My  sister  May  was,  of 
course,  the  first  in  whom  I  confided.  She  was  of  a 
gentle"  and  timid  nature,  and  shrank  in  alarm  from  the 
proposed  public  step.  She  could  not  discuss  it  without 
tears  and  violent  emotion. 

"You  cannot  go  through  with  it  —  I  am  sure  you 
cannot ! "  were  her  weeping  exclamations. 

"  "We  none  know  what  we  can  do  until  we  are  tried," 
was  the  truismVith  which  I  answered  her  objection. 

"What  will  our  friends  say  of  you  if  you  make  a 
public  appearance  ?  "  she  urged. 

"  What  will  our  friends  do  for  us  in  case  I  do  not  ? 
Will  they  preserve  to  us  this  sweet  home  ?  Will  they 
support  us  ?  Will  they  even  sympathize  with  our  ad 
versity  ?  " 

"  But  you  will  lose  your  position  in  society." 

"  If  I  fail,  probably  I  shall ;  but  I  do  not  intend  to 
fail.  And  what  is  that  position  in  society  worth  when 
we  are  no  longer  able  to  feast  and  entertain  ?  How 
many  of  those  whom  we  feasted  and  entertained  at  our 
last  ball  will  seek  us  out  when  we  live  in  poverty  and 
obscurity  ?  " 

"  If  you  would  only  look  at  all  the  obstacles !  " 

"  No,  I  arn  looking  above  and  beyond  them,  and  I 
only  see  duty  in  their  place." 

Young  as  my  sister  was,  she  saw  the  force  of  my 
arguments,  and  sorrowed  in  silence. 

The  sight  of  her  anguish  affected  me  so  much  that  I 
had  not  courage  to  seek  my  father  and  make  the  neces 
sary  communication  to  him.  His  opposition,  should  he 
oppose  my  wishes,  would  inevitably  paralyze  my 
strength.  I  wrote  to  him,  and  entreated  that  he  would 


FABE^VELL    TO    A   BELOVED    HOME.  143 

not  dishearten  me  —  not  throw  a  clog  upon  ray  efforts 
by  his  disapproval.  This  letter  was  not  to  be  delivered 
until  the  day  when  we  started  for  Boston. 

That  day  soon  came.  About  an  hour  before  the 
time  when  it  was  necessary  for  us  to  leave,  I  went  into 
my  sister's  room,  and  found  her  greatly  agitated. 
"'Come,  May,  let  us  bid  good  by  to  the  dear,  old  place, 
and  pray  that  we  may  soon  return  and  be  as  happy  as 
ever." 

She  put  her  arms  about  me,  and  we  walked  into  the 
garden.  For  the  last  time  we  gathered  flowers  from 
our  favorite  plants  —  plants  many  of  which  we  had 
ourselves  put  in  earth  and  helped  to  tend.  From  the 
garden  we  went  to  the  greenhouse.  Xear  the  door  was 
a  heliotrope,  some  two  feet  high,  which  had  grown  from 
a  sprig  that  had  been  taken  by  Mr.  Mowatt  from  my 
hair.  It  was  covered  with  deliciou sly-fragrant  blossoms, 
and  from  them  we  added  to  our  bouquets.  Then  we 
walked  through  the  arbor  to  the  summer  house,  and  sat 
there  for  a  few  sweet  minutes ;  then  strolled  to  the 
orchards  beyond,  into  the  lane  that  ran  by  the  grounds. 
Then  we  went  to  the  stables  and  caressed  our  ponies, 
especially  Queen  Mab,  and  bade  farewell  to  our  dogs 
and  our  many  pets.  Through  every  room  of  the  house 
we  passed,  and  with  lingering  looks  of  love  we  bade 
each  adieu.  My  sister  was  weeping,  but  I  could  not 
shed  a  tear.  I  had  been  full  of  hope  until  this  moment 
but  now  a  solemn  sensation  came  over  me  and  whispered 
this  farewell  was  our  last  —  for  I  should  never  enter 
that  house  again  as  its  mistress !  I  never  did. 

"We  were  standing  in  the  old-fashioned  room  where 
our  little  play  had  been  performed,  and  talking  over  the 


144      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

pleasures  of  that  eventful  night,  when  the  carriage 
came  to  the  door.  Hurriedly  we  took  our  seats. 

"  Take  care  of  the  flowers,"  was  the  parting  injunc 
tion  to  our  faithful  French  gardener,  who,  with  a  sad 
face,  stood  waiting  to  bid  us  adieu.  "  Que  le  ~bon  Dieu 
vous  lenisse  !  "  was  his  fervent  reply,  and  the  carriage 
drove  rapidly  away. 

We  left  my  sister,  with  the  letter  she  had  to  deliver, 
at  our  father's  door ;  and,  without  waiting  to  see  any 
of  the  family,  drove  to  the  boat  which  started  for 
Boston. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Boston. — Mrs.  B s. — A  Ball-room  Acquaintance  converted  into 

a  stanch  Friend.  —  Boston  Friendships.  —  Morning  at  the  Tem 
ple.  —  Heartsickness.  —  The  old  Doorkeeper's  Encouragement.  — 
My  Father's  Letter.  —  Inherited  Traits.  —  First  Appearance  in 
public.  —  Sensations.  —  A  frst  Success.  —  Second  and  third  Read 
ings.  —  Lenient  Critics.  —  Heading  in  Providence.  —  The  Mi-ssing 
Ship.  —  Readings  in  New  York.  —  Fatting  away  of  old  Friends. — 
Reading  at  Rutger's  Institute  for  Young  Ladies.  —  Readings  at 
Society  Library.  —  Illness.  —  Article  in  Ladies'  Companion.  — 
Mrs.  Osgood's  Poem.— Imitators.  — Offer  of  Park  Theatre.— 
Letter  from  Professor  Hows. 

As  I  look  back,  I  can  scarcely  believe  it  possible  that 
in  Boston,  where  now  I  arn  bound  by  so  many  close, 
strong  ties  of  friendship,  I  had  then  but  one  acquaint 
ance —  an  acquaintance  casually  formed  in  the  ball 

rooms  of  Paris.     Mrs.  B s  called  upon  me  as  soon 

as  my  arrival  in  Boston  was  published.  I  had  known 
her  merely  as  a  woman  of  fashion,  chasing  the  butterfly 
pleasure,  even  as  I  was  doing,  in  Parisian  salons.  But 
now  that  I  had  a  more  earnest,  a  higher  pursuit,  — 

"All 
Her  falser  self  slipped  from  her  like  a  robe,"  — 

and  she  came  to  me  in  her  true  guise.  It  was  the 
woman  of  soul  that  greeted  me,  full  of  tender  sympa 
thies  and  eager  interest  —  lamenting  our  misfortunes, 
and  ready  to  act  the  part  of  a  devoted  friend.  She  en 
couraged  me  in  my  undertaking —  enlisted  in  my  behalf 
the  good  wishes  of  her  large  circle  of  acquaintances  — 
10  (145> 


146      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

brought  a  number  of  them  to  introduce  to  me  —  and 
exerted  herself  to  the  utmost  to  insure  a  crowded  audi 
ence  to  my  first  reading.  She  herself  took  one  hundred 
tickets.  I  was  strengthened  and  cheered  by  her  untir 
ing  kindness ;  her  hearty  enthusiasm  gave  me  new  faith 
in  my  own  success.  Beyond  price,  at  that  moment, 
was  such  a  friend ;  and  the  impetus  which  she  gave  to 
my  first  efforts  had  their  effect  upon  my  whole  career. 

Our  letters  of  introduction  brought  us  into  communi 
cation  with  many  delightful  and  some  distinguished  per 
sons.  Their  interest  in  my  novel  undertaking  was  easily 
awakened,  and  their  inspiring  influence  hemmed  me 
around  until  I  seemed  to  stand  within  a  magic  circle, 
guarded,  as  by  a  charm,  from  all  inharmonious  exist 
ences.  The  friendships  formed  at  that  period  have  been 
among  the  most  enduring  and  most  valued  of  my  life. 

We  had  only  spent  a  couple  of  days  in  Boston  when 
all  the  arrangements  for  my  first  appearance  were  satis 
factorily  completed.  I  was  to  read  at  the  Masonic 
Temple  for  three  successive  nights.  The  evening  of 
my  debut  was  announced,  and  courteous  editorial 
notices,  bespeaking  a  fair  hearing,  appeared  in  all  the 
principal  papers.  ,.» f 

The  day  before  that  on  which  I  was  to  make  my 
debut  I  visited  the  temple,  and  with  a  throbbing  heart 
ascended  the  rostrum  which  I  was  to  occupy  during  the 
readings.  I  tried  my  voice,  to  learn  whether  it  had 
compass  enough  to  fill  the  capacious  hall.  Mr.  Mowatt 
and  an  old  doorkeeper  (who  treated  me  in  the  most 
paternal  and  encouraging  manner)  were  my  only 
auditors.  Yet  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  could  speak 
in  so  singular  a  situation.  The  words  came  gaspingly 
forth,  and  I  seemed  to  have  lost  all  variety  of  intona- 


MORNING    AT    THE    TEilFLE.  147 

tion.  I  grew  sick  at  heart.  If  my  courage  evaporated 
before  an  imaginary  audience,  how  could  I  hope  for 
presence  of  mind  to  carry  me  through  the  duties  I  had 
imposed  upon  myself  when  I  stood  in  the  presence  of  an 
actual  crowd  ?  I  made  effort  after  effort  to  recite,  but 
my  voice  was  choked  —  I  could  scarcely  utter  a  word. 
I  sat  down  upon  the  steps  of  the  rostrum,  overwhelmed 
with  doubts  and  fears,  which  rushed  like  freshets  over 
my  heart,  and  swept  away  all  its  bright  fabrics.  I  could 
not  weep,  —  I  was  too  miserable  for  tears,  —  and  I 
could  not  listen  to  consolation. 

"  You're  only  a  bit  nervous,"  said  the  old  doorkeeper, 
comfortingly;,  "you'll  get  over  that.  I've  seen  great 
speakers  look  just  as  pale  and  frightened  as  you  do  now 
when  they  got  on  this  stand  here  —  but  they  soon 
warmed  up  ;  and  there's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of." 

Still  I  would  not  be  consoled.  I  could  only  remember 
that,  if  I  failed,  disgrace  was  added  to  our  other  ruin. 
The  monster,  Self-mistrust,  had  entered  my  mind,  and 
was  rapidly  rooting  up  all  its  new  and  giant  growths. 

We  returned  to  the  hotel.  Cards,  kind  notes,  and 
bouquets  were  awaiting  me.  One  note  was  from  Judge 
Story,  written  in  the  most  encouraging  strain ;  another 
from  the  poet  Longfellow,  apologizing  for  not  calling, 
on  the  plea  of  illness.  I  was  dispiritedly  putting  them 
aside  when  a  letter  was  handed  me.  It  was  from  my 
father.  I  had  scarcely  courage  to  break  the  seal.  If 
his  disapprobation  were  added  to  my  present  dejection, 
my  failure  was  certain.  The  first  words  reassured  me 
—  my  father  had  pondered  well  upon  the  course  I  pro 
posed  to  pursue,  and  he  gave  my  efforts  not  merely  his 
sanction,  but  his  heartiest  approval.  He  bade  me  never 
lose  sight  of  the  motive  I  had  in  view ;  and,  with  its 


148      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

help,  my  talents  (as  he  was  pleased  to  call  them)  would 
enable  me  to  achieve  a  triumph.  He  gave  me  his  own 
blessing,  and  assured  me  that,  as  far  as  I  was  actuated  by 
a  sense  of  duty,  I  should  win  the  blessing  of  Heaven  also. 

An  indomitable  energy  and  perseverance  had  char 
acterized  all  the  actions  of  my  father's  life.  I  inherited 
these  traits  from  him,  and  with  them  a  faculty  for  happi 
ness  that  struck  out  the  slender  vein  of  gold  in  the  dros 
siest  earth  of  circumstance.  As  I  read  his  letter,  my 
whole  nature  was  quickened  by  an  influx,  as  it  were, 
from  his  strong,  never-weary,  and  ever-buoyant  spirit 
All  my  hopes  returned,  and  from  that  moment  my 
courage  never  wavered. 

The  sun  shone  brightly  upon  the  morning  of  my 
debut.  The  heavens  seemed  to  smile  benignantly  upon 
my  undertaking.  That  nothing  might  disturb  my  com 
posure,  I  refused  to  receive  visitors,  and  passed  the  day 
quietly  in  my  own  chamber. 

Evening  found  me  calm  and  strong  of  heart.  I  en 
tered  the  carriage  that  bore  me  to  the  temple,  not 
more  agitated  to  outward  appearance  than  if  I  had  been 
hastening  to  a  ball. 

I  had  resisted  all  entreaties  to  wear  any  rich  attire, 
and  was  dressed  in  simple  white  muslin,  a  white  rose 
in  my  bosom,  and  another  in  my  hair.  I  wore  no  orna 
ments. 

In  the  retiring  room  of  the  temple  we  found  several 
gentlemen,  the  warmest  among  our  new  friends,  await 
ing  us.  A  painful  anxiety  was  depicted  in  their  faces. 
Well  might  they  have  wondered  at  the  almost  stony 
calmness  of  mine.  They  told  me  that  the  temple  was 
crowded  with  one  of  the  most  fashionable  audiences  ever 
assembled  within  its  walls.  They  entreated  me  to  re- 


FIRST   APPEARANCE.  149 

tain  my  self-possession,  and  poured  into  my  ears  words 
of  sympathy  and  encouragement,  which,  in  the  abstrac 
tion  of  that  moment,  I  scarcely  heard. 

They  remained  with  us  until  the  clock  struck  half 
past  seven,  the  hour  at  which  I  was  announced  to  ap 
pear.  "  Do  not  keep  the  audience  waiting.  Bostonians 

dislike  nothing  more  ! "  said  Mr.  F s,  as  he  shook 

my  hand,  and,  accompanied  by  the  other  gentlemen,  left 
the  room  to  take  his  seat  in  the  temple. 

Two  minutes  more,  and  I  was  within  view  of  the 
audience.  Mr.  Mowatt  led  me  to  the  foot  of  the  ros 
trum,  but  I  ascended  the  steps  alone.  I  remember 
courtesying  slightly,  half  stunned  by  the  repeated  rounds 
of  applause,  the  blaze  of  light,  the  dense  crowd  of  faces 
all  turned  towards  me.  I  sat  down  by  the  table  that 
held  my  books,  and  mechanically  opened  the  one  from 
which  I  was  to  read.  I  rose  with  it  in  my  hand. 
Again  came  the  bursts  of  applause  —  the  hall  swam 
and  then  grew  dark  before  me  —  I  could  not  see  the 
book  that  I  held  open  in  my  hand  —  my  veins  were 
filled  with  ice  —  I  seemed  to  myself  transformed  into  a 
statue.  Although  I  still  stood,  I  could  not,  for  a  few 
seconds,  have  been  more  unconscious  in  a  state  of  com 
plete  inanition. 

The  opening  piece  I  had  selected  was  the  introduc 
tion  to  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  and  the  first 
words  I  had  to  utter  were, — 

"  The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold." 

I  could  deliver  the  line  feelingly,  indeed,  for  I  was 
shivering  violently,  and  weary  and  long  seemed  the  way 
I  had  just  entered. 

At  length,  in  an  uncertain  voice,  I  commenced  to 


150       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

read.  Long  before  I  had  half  finished  the  poem,  my 
self-possession  returned  —  a  genial  warmth  displaced 
the  icy  chill,  iny  voice  grew  loud  and  clear,  and  I  found 
it  eas'y  to  divest  myself  of  all  consciousness  of  the  audi 
ence.  I  began  also  to  become  accustomed  to  the  ap 
plause  which  at  first  oppressed  and  frightened  me.  I 
went  through  the  various  selections  in  order,  and  with 
out  betraying  any  further  emotion. 

When  half  the  entertainment  was  over,  there  was  an 
intermission  of  ten  minutes,  and  I  was  at  liberty  to 
withdraw  into  the  retiring  room.  There  I  was  greeted 
by  a  host  of  friends,  all  loud  in  their  congratulations, 

and  a  note  from  my  faithful  ally,  Mrs.  B s,  told  me 

of  the  delight  of  her  party,  and  assured  me  of  my  per 
fect  success. 

With  renewed  spirit  I  reascended  the  rostrum,  and 
read  the  concluding  poems  with  as  much  ease  as  I  should 
have  done  to  a  select  party  of  friends  in  rny  own  draw 
ing  room. 

At  the  hotel  a  fresh  assemblage  awaited  me.  I  was 
overwhelmed  with  new  congratulations  and  prophecies 
of  a  brilliant  career  —  a  career  that  would  accomplish 
all  that  I  had  so  much  at  heart.  My  deep  joy  trans 
ported  me  to  the  grape-hung  bower.  I  stood  there  in 
thought,  exclaiming,  "Our  home  is  secured  ;  I  am  mis 
tress  here  still ! " 

It  was  past  midnight  before  our  visitors  took  their 
leave  and  allowed  me  to  retire.  When  I  was  once 
more  alone,  when  iny  full  heart  could  offer  up  its 
grateful  thanks,  I  could  weep  again.  What  woman 
does  not  know  the  delicious  relief  of  tears  —  the  ter 
rible  privation  when  the  eyes  remain  burning  and  un- 
moistened  through  suffering  and  trial  ?  They  were  the 


BRIGHT    ANTICIPATIONS.  151 

first  tears  I  had  shed  since  the  day  when  I  was  told  of 
the  complete  wreck  of  our  fortunes.  The  future  now 
seemed  so  bright  before  me,  that,  in  my  ignorance  of 
the  world,  I  anticipated  no  difficulties,  no  drawbacks,  no 
rebuffs.  I  saw  but  roses  in  the  pathway  of  life's  jour 
ney.  I  had  yet  to  learn  that  sharp-edged  flints  are  scat 
tered  on  the  road,  to  lacerate  the  feet  of  those  who 
walk. not  in  the  trodden  way>. 

The  next  night  I  read  again  to  an  equally  large  and 
enthusiastic  audience  —  and  again  on  the  third  night  to 
the  same  crowd,  and  was  greeted  with  the  same  unmis 
takable  tokens  of  approval.  I  was  no  longer  in  the 
slightest  degree  embarrassed.  I  felt  as  though  I  were 
reading  to  an  audience  of  indulgent  friends,  who  were 
determined  to  be  pleased  with  my  most  imperfect  efforts. 
So,  in  fact,  they  were.  A  spirit  of  chivalry  towards  a 
countrywoman  evidently  existed  among  the  gentlemen. 

Mr.  TT e's  characteristic  remark  on  the  subject  was, 

"  There  is  not  a  man  in  the  temple  that  wouldn't  fight 
for  you!" 

The  critics  dealt  with  me  tenderly,  as  with  a  spoiled 
child  whom  Boston  had  suddenly  adopted  and  was  de 
termined  to  protect.  The  papers  teemed  with  notices  ; 
but  they  were  eulogiums,  not  critiques.  By  common 
consent,  it  seemed  to  be  decided  that  I  was  to  be  exempt 
from  criticism. 

I  was  warmly  pressed  to  remain  and  give  a  second 
course  of  readings ;  but  I  was  now  anxious  to  return  to 
Kew  York.  We  took  our  departure  from  Boston  with 
a  promise  of  speedy  return. 

In  passing  through  Providence,  I  read  one  night  to 
a  crowded  audience.  During  the  recitation  of  the  Miss 
ing  Ship,  written  for  me  by  Epes  Sargent,  and  descrip- 


152      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

tive  of  the  loss  of  the  steamship  President,  a  lady 
present  was  so  deeply  moved  that  she  was  carried  from 
the  hall  in  violent  hysterics.  This  poem  proved  one  of 
the  most  valuable  in  my  repertoire,  for  it  never  failed  to 
impress  an  audience.  The  Light  of  the  Lighthouse,  by 
the  same  author,  (which  I  afterwards  frequently  read 
in  public,)  was  equally  effective  in  the  recitation.  I 
made  my  selections  as  often  as  possible  from  American 
poets. 

From  Providence  we  went  to  New  York,  and  a 
course  of  readings  for  four  nights  was  announced  to 
take  place  at  the  Stuyvesant  Institute.  Curiosity  drew 
me  full  audiences ;  but  I  did  not  feel  as  though  Sym 
pathy  sat  side  by  side  with  Curiosity,  as'  she  had  done 
in  Boston.  I  found  it  more  difficult  to  read  impres 
sively  than  I  had  done  before  my  indulgent  New  Eng 
land  audiences.  The  sphere  seemed  different,  the 
recipients  less  impressible.  I  could  not  feel  the  same 
easy  abandon  —  the  utter  freedom  from  constraint.  I 
had  too  many  personal  friends  constantly  present,  and  I 
thought  too  much  of  what  the  Mrs.  Grundies  were 
saying. 

My  father's  delight  and  pride,  warmly  and  openly  ex 
pressed,  compensated  me  for  the  sufferings  inflicted  by 
others  —  sufferings  for  which  I  was  wholly  unprepared. 
Some  beloved  relatives,  and  some  who  had  been  my 
nearest,  dearest  friends,  —  friends  from  my  early  child 
hood,  who  were  associated  in  my  mind  with  all  the 
sweetest,  happiest  hours  of  my  life,  —  now  turned  from 
me.  They  were  shocked  at  my  temerity  in  appearing 
before  the  public.  They  even  affected  not  to  believe  in 
Mr.  Mowatt's  total  loss  of  means.  They  tacitly  pro 
scribed  me  from  the  circle  of  their  acquaintance.  When 


FALLING    AWAY    OF    OLD    FRIENDS.  153 

•we  passed  in  the  street,  instead  of  the  outstretched 
hand  and  loving  greeting  to  which  I  had  ever  been  ac 
customed,  I  met  the  cold  eye  and  averted  face  that 
shunned  recognition. 

I  may  now  revert  without  bitterness  to  this  sad  era  in 
my  life  ;  for  time,  circumstances,  and  (to  speak  the 
whole  truth)  a  succession  of  brilliant  successes  have 
now  reunited  the  bright  and  once  broken  links.  All 
those  whom  I  truly  prized,  in  the  course  of  years, 
allowed  their  affection  and  kinder  judgment  to  over 
come  worldly  prejudices.  They  generously  gave  me 
back  the  place  I  once  held  in  their  hearts.  Nor  had  I 
the  right  to  complain  because  I  was  for  a  season  misun 
derstood.  They  but  followed  their  convictions,  as  I 
mine.  My  love  for  them  had  never  varied,  and 

"  If  I  had  angered  any  among  them,  my  own  life  was  sore ; 
If  I  fell  from  their  presence,  I  clung  to  their  memory  more'; 
Their  tender  I  often  felt  holy,  their  bitter  I  sometimes  called 

sweet ; 

And  whenever  their  heart  has  refused  me,  1  fell  down  straight 
at  their  feet !  " 

Under  the  heavy  pressure  of  mental  suffering,  added 
to  the  exhaustion  produced  by  unusual  exertions,  my 
health  gave  way.  After  fulfilling  the  course  at  the 
Stuyvesant  Institute,  I  became  seriously  ill,  and  was 
forced  to  make  several  postponements  of  the  time  an 
nounced  for  my  reading  before  the  Rutger's  Institute  for 
Young  Ladies.  When  I  was  scarcely  convalescent,  I 
read  there  one  night.  The  hall  was  filled  with  an 
assemblage  of  lovely-looking  young  girls,  and  their  evi 
dent  enjoyment  inspired  me  to  read  with  more  energy 
and  feeling  than  I  had  done  since  my  nights  in  Boston. 
The  effort  cost  me  a  relapse  of  some  weeks.  Again  I 


154      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

rallied,  and  gave  a  course  of  four  nights'  readings  at 
the  Society  Library.  I  met  with  the  same  success  as 
before,  but  my  strength  was  overtaxed.  The  continued 
coldness  of  some  of  my  dearest  friends  preyed  upon  my 
mind,  and  threw  me  into  a  state  of  morbid  nervous  ex 
citement.  I  was  attacked  with  fever  and  hemorrhages 

O 

of  the  lungs.  For  several  months  I  was  considered  by 

my  physician,  Dr.  C g,  in  a  state  which  rendered 

recovery  very  improbable. 

I  had  not  been  treated  by  the  New  York  press  with 
the  same  courteous  leniency  as  by  that  of  Boston. 
Some  of  the  leading  papers  were  warm  in  their  enco 
miums  —  others  contained  most  just  criticisms,  point 
ing  out  faults  of  style  of  which  I  was  myself  gradually 
becoming  conscious.  Others  condemned  in  toto  the  bold 
and  novel  step  I  had  taken,  ignoring  its  motive. 

One  article  appeared  in  the  Ladies'  Companion,  writ 
ten  by  a  lady  contributor  of  high  literary  standing, 
severely  denouncing  my  course,  and  suggesting  that,  if 
public  readings  must  be  given,  I  should  read  before  an 
audience  entirely  of  my  own  sex !  It  was  a  rather 
comical  idea  that  the  gentlemen  were  to  be  left  at  the 
door  with  the  canes  and  umbrellas ;  and  yet  the  lady 
who  wrote  this  singularly  one-sided  article  is  a  gifted 
and  estimable  person. 

But  if  one  woman  of  literary  standing  wrote  thus, 
another  of  true  genius  and  well-deserved  fame  poured 
the  balm  of  her  poetic  spirit  into  the  wound.  The 
lamented  Mrs.  Frances  Sargent  Osgood,  after  attend 
ing  one  of  the  readings,  addressed  to  me  the  following 
poem,  the  genuine  expression  of  her  truly  womanly 
nature  :  — 


POEM   BY   MRS.    F.    S.    OSGOOD.  155 


TO  ANNA  CORA  MOWATT, 
(On  hearing  her  read.) 

BY  FRANCES   S.   OSGOOD. 

Ne'er  heed  them,  Cora,  dear, 

The  carping  few,  who  say 
Thou  leavest  woman's  holier  sphere 

For  light  and  vain  display. 

'Tis  false  as  thou  art  true  ! 

They  need  but  look  on  thee, 
But  watch  thy  young  cheek's  varying  hue, 

A  purer  hope  to  see. 

I  too,  Cora,  sooth  to  say, 

When  first  I  heard  thy  name, 
In  fancy  saw  a  being  bold, 

Who  braved  the  wide  world's  blame. 

I  took  my  seat  among 

The  crowd,  in  thoughtless  glee, 
To  list  the  gifted  jwet's  song, 

With  little  heed  for  thee  ! 

But  suddenly  a  sound, 

A  murmur  of  surprise, 
And  fresh  delight  ran  deepening  round : 

I  coldly  raised  my  eyes  ;  — 

A  being  young  and  fair. 

In  purest  white  arrayed, 
With  timid  grace  tripped  down  the  stair, 

Half  eager,  half  afraid  ! 

As  on  the  misty  height 

Soft  blushes  young  Aurora, 
She  dawned  upon  our  dazzled  sight, 

Our  graceful,  modest  Cora  ! 

The  loveliest  hair  of  gold 
That  ever  woman  braided, 


156  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    AN    ACTRESS. 

In  glossy  ringlets,  richly  rolled, 
Brow,  neck,  and  bosom  shaded. 

No  jewel  lit  the  tress, 

No  ornament  she  wore, 
But,  robed  as  simply  as  a  child, 

She  won  our  worship  more. 

The  glowing  gold  and  gems 
Of  Fashion's  proud  attire 

Were  nothing  to  her  cheeks'  soft  bloom 
And  her  eyes'  azure  fire  ! 

Forth  from  those  pure  blue  eyes, 

As  from  a  starry  portal, 
A  soul  looked  out  and  spoke  to  ours, 

With  beauty  more  than  mortal. 

But  even  applause  was  hushed, 
When,  from  her  lips  of  love, 

That  voice  of  wondrous  music  gushed, 
Now  soft  as  murmuring  dove  — 

Now  calm  in  proud  disdain  — 
Now  wild  with  joyous  power  — 

Indignant  now  —  as  pleasure,  pain, 
Or  anger  rule  the  hour. 

High  in  the  listener's  soul, 
In  tune,  each  passion  swells  ; 

We  weep,  we  smile,  'neath  her  control, 
As  'neath  a  fairy's  spells. 

O,  while  such  power  is  thine 

To  elevate,  subdue, 
Believe  thy  mission  half  divine, 

Nor  heed  the  carping  few ! 

And,  Cora  !  falter  not, 
Though  critics  cold  may  say 

Thou  leavest  woman's  holier  lot 
For  vain  and  light  display. 


OFFER    OF   PARK   THEATRE.  157 

My  success  gave  rise  to  a  host  of  lady  imitators,  one 
of  whom  announced  "  Readings  and  Recitations  in  the 
Style  of  Mrs.  Mowatt."  I  was  rather  curious  to  get  an 
idea  of  my  own  style,  and,  had  my  health  permitted, 
would  have  gone  some  distance  to  have  seen  it  illus 
trated.  At  one  time  there  were  no  less  than  six  adver 
tisements  in  the  papers,  of  ladies  giving  readings  in 
different  parts  of  the  Union. 

My  first  course  of  readings  in  New  York  was  acci 
dentally  attended  by  one  of  the  managers  of  the  Park 
Theatre,  who,  through  a  friend,  made  me  a  highly  lucra 
tive  proposal  if  I  would  appear  upon  the  stage.  I  well 
remember  the  indignant  reply  I  gave  the  gentleman 
who  communicated  to  me  this  offer.  The  recollection 
of  that  answer  has  often  rendered  me  forbearing  towards 
those  who  I  have  since  heard  violently  denounce  the 
stage,  and  who  were  as  ignorant  as  I  was  at  that  period 
of  every  thing  that  related  to  a  theatre. 

Amongst  the  testimonials  of  interest  which  were 
called  forth  by  my  readings,  one  of  those  which  I  most 
highly  appreciated  was  a  complimentary  letter  from 
Professor  Hows  —  perhaps  one  of  the  most  finished 
elocutionists  of  the  day.  My  personal  acquaintance  with 
that  gentleman  did  not  commence  until  a  later  period. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Mesmerism.  —  The  Phenomenon  of  Double  Consciousness.  —  Som- 
nanibidic  Incidents.  —  Townshend.  —  Miss  Martincau's  Misuse  of 
Mesmeric  Facts.  —  First  Acquaintance  icith  the  Writings  of 
Sicedenborg.  —  Influence  of  New  Church  Doctrines.  —  Joining  the 
Church.  —  Four  Sisters  also  becoming  Members. — Writings  of  my 
eldest  Sister.  —  Letter  on  Mesmeric  Somnambulism.  —  Revisiting 
former  Residence.  —  Lenox.  —  The  SedgwicJts.  —  Friendships 
with  School  Girls.  —  Getting  up  of  Miss  Sedgwick's  Play.  — 
Crowning  of  their  Stage  Manager  by  the  Scholars.  —  Conversa 
tions  with  Rev.  Dr.  William  Ellery  Channing.  —  The  Future  Life. 

THE  illness  which  I  mentioned  in  the  preceding 
chapter  was  of  long  duration.  As  a  faithful  historian, 
fulfilling  a  trust,  I  cannot  omit  the  narration  of  events 
which  were  produced  by  that  illness.  But  I  allude  to 
them  with  reluctance  —  a  reluctance  which  has  perhaps 
no  reasonable  foundation. 

Dr.  C g,  of  New  York,  was  called  in  to  attend 

me.  He  considered  my  state  dangerous.  On  the  occa 
sion  of  his  first  visit,  after  numerous  inquiries  in  regard 
to  my  symptoms,  he  turned  to  Mr.  Mowatt,  and  said, 
"  If  she  is  susceptible  to  mesmerism,  I  think  she  can  be 
relieved  more  readily  than  by  any  medicine  that  I 
could  administer." 

Mr.  Mowatt  had  not  any  knowledge  of  mesmerism, 
nor  had  I.  We  had  never  seen  a  mesmeric  subject  — 
never  heard  a  case  fully  described.  He  strongly  ob 
jected  to  my  being  made  the  subject  of  an  experiment. 
An  argument  ensued  which  I  did  not  hear.  It  ended 

(158) 


FIRST    MESMERIC    EXPERIENCE.  159 

in  Dr.  C — g's  assurance  that  I  might  be  greatly  bene 
fited  by  mesmeric  treatment,  but  could  not  be  injured. 
Mr.  Mowatt  finally  assented  to  the  doctor's  proposition. 
I  was  suffering  too  much  to  express  an  opinion,  or  even 
to  have  one. 

When  Dr.  C g  first  proposed  to  mesmerize  me,  I 

was  reclining  in  an  arm  chair.  The  doctor  now  placed 
himself  in  front  of  me.  I  remember  his  making  what  are 
called  "  passes  "  before  my  eyes.  Very  soon  my  head 
grew  slightly  dizzy  —  the  room  seemed  filled  with  a  dim 
haziness  —  the  objects  began  to  dance  and  float,  and 
then  to  disappear.  I  recollect  nothing  further. 

I  was  afterwards  told  that  in  less  than  twenty  minutes 
I  fell  into  a  very  deep  sleep,  from  which  I  suddenly 
emerged  into  a  state  of  somnambulic  consciousness.  A 
similar  deep  sleep,  I  am  assured,  always  subsequently 
preceded  my  state  of  mesmeric  somnambulism.  It  was 
the  drawbridge  separating  the  waking  from  the  "  sleep- 
waking"  state,  over  which  I  had  inevitably  to  pass. 
Even  when  I  had  become  so  sensitive  to  the  mesmeric 
influence  that  I  could  be  put  by  it  into  the  somnambulic 
state  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  I  am  told  there 
would  be,  to  outward  appearance,  an  absolute  insensi 
bility  and  suspension  of  all  consciousness  for  an  interval 
of  several  seconds,  during  which,  if  standing  at  the 
time,  I  would  fall  to  the  ground,  unless  supported.  On 
entering  the  somnambulic  state,  thus  induced  by  mes 
merism,  I  am  further  informed  I  would  be  entirely  un 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  other  parties  than  the 
magnetizer,  until  they  were  put  in  communication  with 
me  by  him;  and  that  often  I  was  subjected  to  much 
pain,  and  even  thrown  into  convulsive  shudderings,  by 
being  inconsiderately  touched  by  persons  not  in  commu 
nication. 


160       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

It  should  be  stated  that,  from  childhood,  I  had  been 
occasionally  addicted  to  natural  somnambulism,  and  had 
repeatedly  been  known  to  walk  and  talk  in  my  sleep. 
It  is  Said  that  persons  of  this  habit  are  especially  sus 
ceptible  of  the  mesmeric  influence. 

In  regard  to  my  first  mesmeric  trance,  I  must  rely 
solely  upon  the  testimony  of  others  as  .to  what  trans 
pired  during  its  continuance.  I  had,  and  still  have,  no 
conscious  recollection  whatever  in  regard  to  its  experi 
ences.  I  can  only  repeat  what  I  was  told  by  those 
whose  good  faith  and  accuracy  I  cannot  distrust. 

On  being  awakened  from  the  state  of  somnambulism, 
I  felt  very  much  relieved  and  refreshed.  The  fever 
from  which  I  had  been  suffering  had  nearly  left  me, 
and  my  head,  which  had  ached  incessantly  for  three 
days,  was  free  from  pain.  I  had  slept  between  two  and 
three  hours. 

Mr.  Mo  watt  and  the  doctor  now  amused  themselves 
by  relating  some  of  the  fantastic  remarks  which  I 
had  made  while  somnambulic.  I  began  to  think  that 
I  was  the  victim  of  a  joke.  Was  it  possible  that  I  had 
been,  but  a  few  minutes  previous,  in  a  separate  state  of 
consciousness,  during  which  I  had  talked,  laughed, 
(laughed  at  my  waking  self,  I  was  told !)  and  that,  of  it 
all,  I  could  not  bring  away  the  faintest  inkling  of  remem 
brance  ?  Yet  such,  I  am  forced  to  believe,  was  the 
wonderful  truth.  I  could  with  difficulty  be  persuaded 
that  my  trance  was  not  a  merely  natural  sleep,  into 
which  I  had  accidentally  fallen.  The  physical  relief 
produced  did  not  strike  me  as  remarkable,  as  I  had  been 
unable  to  sleep  before  for  several  days  and  nights. 

To  mesmerism,  under  Heaven,  I  must  believe  I  was 
subsequently  indebted  more  than  once  for  relief  from  a 


DOUBLE    CONSCIOUSNESS.  161 

prostration  which  no  other  human  agency  could  have 
prevented  from  ending  in  dissolution. 

Dr.  C g  attended  me  daily,  and  continued  to  use 

mesmerism  as  the  most  powerful  agent  in  my  restora 
tion.  I  soon  grew  impatient  at  this  apparent  surrender 
of  free  will  —  one  of  Heaven's  choicest  gifts  to  man.  I 
was  annoyed  at  being  told  that  I  had  spoken,  done,  or 
written  things  of  which  I  had  no  recollection.  Numer 
ous  poems  were  placed  in  my  hands,  which,  I  was  in 
formed,  I  had  improvised  as  rapidly  as  they  could  be 
taken  down,  the  subjects  having  been  given  haphazard 
by  any  person  present.  It  was  no  particular  gratifica 
tion  to  be  assured  that  I  had  never  produced  any 
thing  as  good  before.  Nor  was  it  any  consolation  to  be 
told  that  in  sleep-waking  I  was  far  more  sensible,  more 
interesting,  and  more  amiable  than  in  my  ordinary  state. 
With  womanly  perverseness,  I  preferred  my  every-day 
imperfection  to  this  mysterious  and  incomprehensibly 
brought  about  superiority.  For  the  former  I  was  at 
least  responsible  —  to  the  latter  I  could  lay  no  conscious 
claim. 

I  say  conscious  claim;  though  it  must  be  admitted 
that  there  may  be  separate  states  of  consciousness. 
In  the  phenomena  of  this  separation,  the  student  of  hu 
man  nature  may,  I  believe,  find  the  clew  to  momentous 
truths.  The  essential  facts  in  ordinary  somnambulism 
will  not  be  denied  except  by  those  awfully  rigorous 
inquirers  who  will  accept  nothing  which  they  cannot 
weigh,  gauge,  and  handle,  and  who  are  quite  as  likely 
to  be  deceived  as  the  most  credulous,  inasmuch  as  the 
scepticism  which  admits  too  little  is  as  liable  to  mistake 
as  the  marvellous  propensity  which  admits  too  much. 
But  if  pretenders  to  science  will  not  grant  it,  common 
11 


162  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    AN -ACTRESS. 

experience  and  common  sense  will,  that  a  person  in 
somnambulism  may  hold  long  and  rational  conversa 
tions,  and  perform  acts,  of  which  he  will  have  no  recol 
lection  whatever  in  his  waking  state.  Let  him  again 
pass,  however,  into  somnambulism,  and  he  can  recall 
every  thing  that  he  ever  experienced  in  that  state. 

It  would  seem,  from  this  common  and  undeniable 
phenomenon,  as  if  there  were  an  inner  consciousness  oc 
cupying  a  higher  plane  than  the  external,  and  com 
manding  a  more  extensive  prospect  —  a  consciousness 
undeveloped  in  most  minds  except  by  flashes,  and 
retiring  within  itself  before  the  external  can  distinctly 
realize  its  presence. 

How  shall  we  account  for  the  thick  veil  of  separation, 
dropped  at  once  by  the  cessation  of  somnambulism 
(whether  independent  or  induced  by  mesmerism)  be 
tween  the  normal  and  abnormal  —  the  external  and 
internal  consciousness  ?  An  analogy  drawn  from  in 
toxication  or  insanity  is  not  precisely  applicable  here ; 
for,  under  somnambulism,  one  may  be  as  cairn  and 
rational,  and  as  completely  in  possession  of  all  his 
faculties,  as  ever  in  his  waking  state ;  nay,  those  facul 
ties  may  be  considerably  quickened  and  exalted.  And 
yet  a  wave  of  the  mesmerizer's  hand  will  bring  the  sub 
ject  back  from  the  higher  to  the  lower  every-day  con 
sciousness,  where  all  that  he  has  been  saying, and  doing 
in  his  somnambulic  state  is  an  utter  blank  !  Another 
wave  of  the  hand,  —  or  an  access  of  natural  somnam 
bulism,  entirely  independent  of  mesmerism,  —  and  lo ! 
all  the  knowledge  of  the  former  state  is  restored,  as  if  a 
curtain  had  been  lifted. 

Townshend  mentions  an  illustrative  instance  of  the 
wonderful  separation  of  these  states  in  the  case  of 


MISS    MARTIXEAU.  163 

E.  A.,  a  French  youth,  whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
mesmerizing.  TVhen  awake,  E.  A.  entertained  infidel 
opinions  of  the  worst  kind.  "  I  asked  him  once,  in  his 
waking  state,"  writes  Townshend,  "  what  he  thought  be 
came  of  us  after  death ;  and  his  answer  was,  *  Z>es  qu'on 
est  mort,  on  n'est  plus  rien  du  tout'  In  sleep-waking 
all  this  was  changed.  His  ideas  of  the  mind  were  cor 
rect,  and  singularly  opposed  to  the  material  views 
lie  took  of  all  questions  when  in  the  waking  state. 
*  Can  the  soul  ever  die  ? '  I  asked.  l  Certainly  not.  It 
is  the  soul  which  is  the  only  true  existence,  and  which 
gives  existence  to  all  we  apprehend.'  Under  mesmeric 
sleep-waking,  all  the  hard  incredulity  which  character 
ized  E.  A.  when  awake  was  gone.  His  wilfulness  was 
become  submission,  his  pride  humility.  Often  would 
he  regret  the  errors  of  his  waking  hours." 

Instances  similar  to  the  above  are  numerous.  Truly, 
"  we  are  wiser  than  we  know."  In  the  mind  of  the 
most  stubborn  materialist  there  may  be  an  inner  con 
sciousness  giving  the  lie  to  his  outward  unbelief  —  a 
consciousness  which  may  be  developed  in  some  tre 
mendous  moment,  perhaps  in  "  the  last  of  earth," 
to  confound  and  overwhelm  him,  and  to  raze,  as 
by  a  lightning  flash,  his  edifices  of  intellectual  pride  and 
presumption.  Georget,  a  distinguished  French  physi 
cian,  and  author  of  several  scientific  works  advocating 
the  broadest  materialism,  was  converted  to  a  conviction 
of  his  error  by  witnessing  the  phenomena  of  somnam 
bulism.  Dying,  he  left  a  formal  recantation  of  his  phi 
losophy,  and  his  last  moments  were  brightened  by  the 
serenest  confidence  in  an  hereafter  for  the  soul. 

If  ever  the  "  livery  of  Heaven "  was  stolen  "  to 
serve  the  devil  in/'  it  has  been  done  by  Miss  Martineau, 


164       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

and  her  ally,  Mr.  Atkinson,  in  their  late  atheistical 
work,  in  which  they  undertake  to  make  some  of  the 
facts  of  mesmerism  and  somnambulism  subservient  to 
the  cause  of  blank  atheism  and  unbelief.  I  can  say  it 
boldly,  that,  so  far  as  I  have  been  permitted  to  bring 
impressions  and  recollections  (which  the  magnetizer, 
by  an  act  of  his  will,  may  let  in  to  the  waking  conscious 
ness  of  the  somnambule)  from  my  own  ample  somnambu- 
lic  experience,  (far  ampler  and  more  extraordinary  than 
any  which  Miss  Martineau,  according  to  her  own  show 
ing,  has  either  experienced  herself  or  witnessed  in 
others,)  they  contradict,  most  emphatically,  not  only  all 
her  atheistical  conclusions,  but  many  of  the  loosely-as 
sumed  facts  on  which  these  are  based. 

There  is  one  passage  in  her  work,  which  indicates 
such  an  extent  of  fatuity,  such  an  -ignorance  of  the 
actual  phenomena  from  which  she  professes  to  reason, 
and  such  an  absurd  anticipation  of  great  results  from 
a  cause  ridiculously  inadequate  and  inoperative,  that 
I  must  be  pardoned  for  quoting  it :  "  The  knowledge/' 
she  says,  "  which  mesmerism  gives  of  the  influence  of 
body  on  body,  and  consequently  of  mind  on  mind,  will 
bring  about  a  morality  we  have  not  yet  dreamed  of. 
And  who  shall  disguise  his  nature  and  his  acts  when 
we  cannot  be  sure  at  any  moment  that  we  are  free 
from  the  clairvoyant  eye  of  some  one  who  is  observing 
our  actions  and  most  secret  thoughts,  and  our  whole 
character  and  history  may  be  read  off  at  any  moment  ?  " 

Here  is  a  substitute  for  the  omniscient  eye  —  such 
a  substitute,  alas!  as  no  healthy  mind  could  ever 
have  seriously  suggested,  even  supposing  the  capacity 
of  human  clairvoyance  to  be  what  Miss  Martin eau  im 
agines.  Let  conscience  (she  substantially  tells  us) 


MISS    MARTINEAU    AND    MESMERISM.  165 

once  rid  itself  of  a  belief  in  God  and  a  future  state, 
and  it  will  be  kept  right  by  the  fancy  that  there  may  be 
some  obscure  somnambulist — we  will  suppose  in  Ore 
gon,  in  Hindostan,  or  nearer  home  —  perhaps  some 
poor,  feeble,  little  woman  —  who  may  have  the  power 
and  intention  of  scanning  our  actions  and  thoughts ! 
What  a  substitute  have  we  here  for  a  belief  in  a  just 
and  benevolent  God  !  what  an  agency  for  bringing 
about  "a  morality  we  have  not  yet  dreamed  of"! 
Alas  !  that  any  person  of  intelligence  —  above  all,  that 
a  woman  —  should,  from  her  intellectual  "  pride  of 
place,"  fall  into  such  a  wretched  "  slough  of  despond  " 
as  this,  and  persuade  herself  that  it  is  a  bed  of  flowers  ! 

If  Miss  Martineau  knows  any  thing  accurately  of 
clairvoyance,  she  must  know  that  its  recognitions  are 
almost  always  involuntary  —  flashing  and  vanishing  like 
the  lightning.  Instances  of  clairvoyance,  originated  and 
sustained  at  will,  are  so  rare,  that  I  have  heard  of  no 
one  case  in  which  any  of  the  numerous  offers  of  money 
for  clairvoyant  readings  of  concealed  writings  has  been 
accepted. 

I  could  mention  many  instances  in  which  Miss 
Martineau  has  entirely  misapprehended  or  misstated 
the  phenomena  of  mesmerism,  —  in  which  she  has 
assumed,  from  the  vaguest  and  most  questionable  prem 
ises,  the  most  momentous  and  unwarrantable  conclu 
sions,  —  on  a  subject,  too,  involving  the  peace  of  mind 
of  thousands.  But  this  is  not  the  place  for  such  a  dis 
cussion.  In  dragging  the  facts  of  somnambulism  to  the 
support  of  her  dismal  creed,  she  has  recklessly  and  mis 
chievously  turned  them  from  their  most  obvious  and 
legitimate  service.  Give  me  such  evidence  of  powers 
transcending  the  mortal  senses  as  they  supply,  and  the 


166       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

whole  tribe  of  atheists,  from  Lucretius  to  Atkinson,  can 
no  more  shake  my  faith  in  spiritual  things  —  in  a 
heavenly  Father  and  an  immortal  soul  —  than  they 
can  persuade  me  that  heat  and  light  proceed,  not  from 
the  sun  of  our  system,  but  from  the  ice  at  the  north 
pole. 

Let  me  commend  to  Miss  Martineau  the  following 
true  arid  eloquent  passage  by  one  of  her  own  country 
men,  the  author  of  Church  and  State :  "  Try  to  con 
ceive  a  man  without  the  ideas  of  God,  eternity,  free 
dom,  will,  absolute  truth  ;  of  the  good,  the  true,  the 
beautiful,  the  infinite.  An  animal,  endowed  with  a 
memory  of  appearances  and  facts,  might  remain ;  but 
the  man  will  have  vanished,  and  you  have  instead  a 
creature  more  subtle  than  any  beast  of  the  field ;  upon 
the  belly  must  it  go,  and  dust  must  it  eat  all  the  days 
of  its  life  !  " 

Ah,  no !  It  is  not  to  such  a  degradation  that  a 
knowledge  of  the  real  facts  of  somnambulism  would 
lead  us.  They  have  none  of  that  vapor  of  the  charnel 
house  about  them  which  Miss  Martineau's  imagination 
would  impart.  They  are  all  of  a  cheering,  elevating, 
and  inspiring  character.  They  lift  our  thoughts  ever  to 
another  and  a  better  life  —  to  heaven,  and  to  anticipa 
tions 

"  Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous,  imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty  ;  more  pellucid  streams, 
An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 
And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams  ; 
Climes  which  the  sun,  that  sheds  the  brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey."  * 

The  question,  "  whether  the  soul  thinks  always,"  is 
decided  by  Locke  in  the  negative,  on  the  ground  that 

*  Wordsworth. 


INDEPENDENT    SOMNAMBULISM.  167 

after-consciousness  is  the  only  testimony  we  can  have 
of  the  mind's  activity  ;  and  that,  since  we  are  by  no 
means  conscious  that  we  think  always,  we  ought  not  to 
assume  that  we  do  think  always.  I  believe,  with  Towns- 
hend,  that  in  this  notion  Locke  was  fundamentally 
wrong ;  for,  equally  with  Townshend's  somnambulist,  I 
have  the  testimony  of  my  fellow-beings  that  the  state 
which,  once  ended,  appeared  a  blank  to  me,  was,  in 
truth,  "  marked  by  energy  and  activity  of  the  highest 
order." 

On  one  point  I  felt  a  degree  of  satisfaction  —  though, 
perhaps,  it  was  only  a  proof  of  my  natural  obstinacy. 
They  told  me  that  I  was  what  is  called  an  independent 
somnambulist ;  and  that  I  could,  at  any  time,  defeat  the 
will  of  the  mesmerizer,  unless  I  chose  to  submit.  It 
was  also  told  me  that  my  reasoning  faculties  were  sin 
gularly  developed  under  somnambulism,  and  that  I  often 
maintained  opinions  at  variance  with  those  of  the  mes 
merizer  and  of  others  with  whom  I  was  in  communica 
tion,  especially  on  religious  subjects.  These  opinions 
I  could  not  be  forced  to  relinquish  by  arguments,  or 
even  through  the  exertion  of  a  superior  will. 

This  brings  me  to  another  circumstance  of  somewhat 
graver  interest.  While  I  was  in  a  somnambulic  state, 
Mr.  Mowatt  often  conversed  with  me  alone  for  hours 
together.  Religion  was  the  subject  upon  which  he  most 
frequently  dwelt.  His  mind  had  naturally  a  strong 
sceptical  tendency,  confirmed  by  a  system  of  education 
miscalled  philosophical.  In  what  manner  his  favorite 
theories  were  overturned,  and  his  belief  in  revealed 
religion  established,  I  do  not  understand ;  I  only  know 
that  there  was  a  downfall  of  the  olden  fabric,  and  a 
foundation  laid  for  the  new.  While  his  religious  views 


168       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

were  undergoing  a  total  revolution,  he  encountered  in 

the  street  Dr.  W y,  an  old  and  esteemed  friend. 

The  doctor  naturally  inquired  after  my  health.  In 
reply,  Mr.  Mowatt  related  the  singular  events  of  the  last 
few  days  —  his  own  deep  impressions  and  consequent 
change  of  feeling. 

"  Mrs.  Mowatt  must  have  read  Swedenborg's  works," 

said  Dr.  W y ;  "  for  those  are  the  doctrines  Swe- 

denborg  promulgates." 

Mr.  Mowatt  replied  that  this  could  not  be  the  case, 
"  as  all  my  reading,  since  I  was  fifteen  years  old,  had 
been  known  to  him." 

Pie  was  right.  I  had  never  read  a  line  of  Sweden 
borg's  writings  —  I  had  never  heard  his  doctrines  men 
tioned. 

Dr.  W y  requested  Mr.  Mowatt  to  ask  me  cer 
tain  questions  the  next  time  I  was  in  a  somnambulic 
state,  and  to  let  him  know  the  replies. 

I  have  often  heard  what  these  questions  were,  but 
cannot  trust  my  memory  to  repeat  them  with  accu 
racy. 

The  questions  were  asked,  and  the  answers  returned 

to  Dr.  W y.  His  reply  upon  hearing  them  was, 

"  Those  are  the  doctrines  revealed  through  Sweden- 
borg." 

"Who  is  Swedenborg?  What  are  his  doctrines? 
Where  shall  I  find  a  church  in  which  they  are  taught  ? 
How  shall  I  obtain  his  writings  ? "  were  Mr.  Mowatt's 
eager  inquiries. 

Dr.  W y  was  himself  an  earnest  New  Church 
man,  and  gave  the  required  information. 

The  next  Sunday  Mr.  Mowatt  went  to  hear  Mr.  Bar 
rett,  a  New  Church  minister,  preach.  My  indisposition 


NEW    CHURCH   DOCTRINES.  169 

still  confined  me  to  the  house.  I  asked  him  how  he 
liked  the  sermon,  and  what  it  was  about.  He  answered 
that  he  hardly  knew  how  he  liked  it,  though  he  had 
never  listened  to  a  sermon  with  so  much  interest  in  his 
life.  He  should  certainly  attend  the  New  Church 
again. 

The  next  day  he  procured  several  volumes  of  Swe 
denborg' s  works.  They  were  in  large,  old-fashioned 
print ;  but  Mr.  Mowatt's  eyes  were  still  so  much  affected 
that  he  could  only  read  for  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  at  a  time. 

I  used  to  feel  troubled  to  see  him,  day  after  day,  por 
ing  over  these  huge  volumes  at  the  risk  of  ruining  his 
eyesight;  but  the  knowledge  for  which  he  thirsted 
brought  him  too  much  happiness  for  any  remonstrances 
to  be  heeded.  While  I  remained  ill,  I  felt  an  indiffer 
ence  almost  amounting  to  aversion  towards  the  writings 
of  Swedenborg,  and  invariably  grew  weary  when  they 
were  discussed.  As  I  became  stronger,  I  resumed  my 
usual  occupation  of  reading  aloud  to  Mr.  Mowatt.  He 
did  not  care  to  listen  to  any  author  but  Swedenborg ; 
and  therefore  from  Swedenborg's  works  I  read.  My 
interest  was  quickly  awakened.  I  read  with  avidity ; 
and  involuntarily,  from  an  internal  conviction,  as  it 
were,  accepted  the  doctrines.  I  never  had  a  doubt 
to  combat.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  I  had 
known  all  that  was  there  revealed  —  believed  it  all 
before  —  only  I  had  never  deliberately  thought  on  the 
subject. 

With  the  full  acceptance  of  New  Church  doctrines 
came 

"  The  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings." 


170      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

All  things  in  life  wore  a  different  aspect.  I  realized 
that  the  things  which  befall  us  in  time  had  no  true  im 
portance  except  as  they  regarded  eternity.  Whatever 
we  received  from  above  was  good,  whether  it  came  in 
the  shape  of  prosperity  or  misfortune,  for  it  was  but  a 
means  to  fit  us  for  our  future  states.  It  became  easy 
to  perceive  that  the  most  trivial  of 

"  Our  daily  joys  and  pains  advance 
To  a  divine  significance." 

Life's  trials  lost  all  their  bitterness. 

As  I  have  no  intention  of  discussing  New  Church 
doctrines,  I  pass  over  our  first  acquaintance  with  min 
isters  and  members  of  the  church,  and  other  circum 
stances  in  the  same  connection. 

In  six  months  more  we  had  both  made  open  confes 
sion  of  our  belief,  and  become  members  of  the  New 
Church.  One  by  one,  four  of  my  sisters  (but  none  of 
them  in  the  slightest  degree  influenced  by  me)  were 
baptized  before  the  same  altar,  and  communed  at  the 
same  table.  Our  eldest,  Mrs.  "William  Turner,  who 
was  unquestionably  the  profoundest  thinker  and  best 
reasoner,  had  been  for  many  years  a  communicant  in 
the  Episcopal  church.  Great  opposition  was  made  by 
her  religious  friends  to  her  open  change  of  faith.  She 
made  an  able  defence  of  her  conduct  in  two  volumes, 
published  in  New  York,  the  one  entitled  "  Reasons  for 
joining  the  New  Church,  by  a  Member  of  the  Episco 
pal  Church ;  "  and  the  other,  "  Points  of  Difference  be 
tween  the  New  and  Old  Church."  The  latter  of  these 
was  reprinted  in  London  without  my  sister's  knowledge, 
and  had  an  extensive  circulation. 

To  return  to  my  mesmeric  experiences.     "I  have 


MESMERIC    PHENOMENA.  171 

seen  you,"  writes  a  friend,  "  several  hundred  times  in 
this  somnambulic  state,  during  a  period  extending  over 
three  years.  The  peculiarities  which  distinguished  it 
were  most  remarkable.  Your  eyelids,  in  this  state, 
when  you  were  particularly  animated,  would  be  tightly 
closed,  and  yet  there  would  be  a  luminous  expression 
on  your'  countenance  which  could  hardly  have  been 
equalled  with  the  aid  of  your  open  eyes.  Generally 
the  eyelids  would  hang  loose,  and  slightly  open  ;  and 
then  it  could  be  seen  that  the  balls  were  always  so 
rolled  up  that  they  could  not  be  a  medium  of  vision. 
During  the  months  and  years  that  I  saw  you  almost 
daily  in  this  state,  I  could  never  detect  the  waking 
expression  on  your  face.  Whatever  might  occur  to 
startle  or  surprise,  never  by  any  accident  were  the 
eyes  thrown  open  as  they  would  have  been  when 
awake. 

"  It  was  remarked  by  all  that  your  voice  was  much 
more  soft  and  childlike  than  usual.  Indeed,  your  whole 
manner  would  be  changed,  as  if  you  had  become  once 
more  as  a  little  child.  You  would  always  allude  to  your 
waking  self,  or  material  body,  in  the  third  person,  as 
she.  For  instance,  you  would  say,  '  She  isn't  hungry;' 
never,  by  any  inadvertence,  '/  am  not  hungry.'  It 
was  rather  unpleasant  to  you  to  be  confounded  with 
your  physical  person.  It  was  sometimes  a  little  em 
barrassing  to  others  to  keep  your  identities  distinct,  and 
they  would  often  confound  the  two  in  conversation. 
But  the  distinction  would  be  never  lost  for  a  moment  by 
yourself.  To  you,  the  existence  of  spiritual  body,  dis 
tinct  from  the  natural,  seemed  a  consciousness  as  vivid 
as  that  which  assures  us  that  we  breathe  and  move. 
The  words  of  St.  Paul,  '  There  is  a  natural  body,  and 


172       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

there  is  a  spiritual  body/  were  to  you  something  more 
than  a  figure  of  speech  —  they  were  a  literal  truth,  not 
to  be  explained  away  or  darkened  by  any  ingenuity  of 
commentators  or  dogmatism  of  theologians. 

"  Your  household  duties  and  accustomed  functions 
would  be  discharged  by  you  in  the  somnambulic  state 
with  perfect  convenience,  and  with  a  promptitude  quite 
exemplary.  You  would  frequently  take  your  meals  in 
this  state ;  and,  if  your  magnetizer  were  present,  you 
would  manifest  the  phenomenon  of  sympathy  of  taste 
in  a  marked  and  satisfactory  manner  —  telling  whether 
he  were  taking  salt  or  vinegar,  pepper  or  mustard,  &c., 
when  he  might  be  behind  a  screen.  At  night,  before 
the  lamps  were  lighted,  you  would  have  a  decided  ad 
vantage  over  all  others  in  the  room  in  your  ability  to 
read,  write,  or  work,  while  the  rest  of  us  might  not  be 
able  to  see  our  hands  before  us.  I  have  several  speci 
mens  of  your  somnambulic  handiwork,  in  the  form  of 
moss  and  flowers  arranged  most  tastefully  dh  paper,  and 
the  whole  executed  in  my  presence  while  it  was  totally 
dark.  I  have  also  letters  which  were  penned  by  you 
in  utter  darkness  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  the  handwriting 
is  greatly  superior  to  your  usual  careless  chirography, 
and  would  not  be  supposed  to  be  from  the  same  hand. 

"  Your  conversation  was  more  marked  by  fluency  and 
confidence  (especially  on  religious  subjects)  than  in 
your  ordinary  state.  But  as  I  looked  mainly  to  the 
palpable  phenomena  of  your  case,  I  took  little  note  of 
your  opinions.  Still  I  was  not  insensible  to  the  psychical 
phenomena  continually  presented.  They  were  too 
numerous  to  recount  in  this  rapid  summary.  *  The 
merest  trifles,'  says  a  philosopher  of  our  day,  '  are  in 
teresting  that  suggest  to  us  an  action  in  man  independ- 


MESMERIC    PHENOMENA.  173 

ent  of  his  present  organization.  Now,  mesmerism 
teems  with  more  than  slight  indications  of  this  ;  and  we 
should  treasure  up  such  glimmerings  of  futurity  — 
however  faint,  and  however  presented  to  us  —  as  in 
estimable  proofs  that  we  possess  a  germ  of  being  which 
God  permits  us  to  behold  partially  unfolded  here,  in 
order  to  confirm  our  faith  as  to  its  fuller  development 
hereafter.'  Most  thoroughly  do  I  acquiesce  in  this  sen 
timent,  and  most  cogently  have  my  experiences  in  your 
case  commended  it  to  my  acceptance. 

"  Frequently,  after  you  had  been  wakened  from  a 
long  magnetic  trance,  during  which  a  variety  of  incidents 
may  have  occurred,  and  many  topics  may  have  been 
discussed,  I  have  (with  the  consent  of  your  magnetizer, 
and  seconded  by  his  will)  brought  up,  one  by  one,  by 
the  silent  agency  of  my  will,  to  your  waking  conscious 
ness,  any  incident  or  topic  which  might  suggest  itself. 
This  I  would  do  simply  by  touching  your  forehead  with 
my  forefinger,  thinking  the  while  intently  on  the  image 
to  be  awakened  in  your  mind.  The  response  would  be 
as  perfect  and  accurate  as  that  from  the  keys  of  a  piano. 
For  instance,  out  of  a  hundred  various  incidents,  I 
would  select  that  of  a  plate  of  strawberries  having 
been  offered  to  you,  or  that  of  a  watch  having  been 
wound  up  ;  and  by  a  touch  on  your  forehead  the  image 
would  be  instantaneously  brought  up,  and  you  would 
exclaim,  '  Strawberries ! '  or  « "Watch  ! '  as  it  might  have 
been.  I  repeated  this  experiment  so  often  with  success, 
that  finally,  though  so  marvellous  in  itself,  it  grew  to 
be,  like  other  daily  marvels,  an  occasion  for  no  emotion 
of  surprise. 

"  Not  only  was  your  philanthropy  more  catholic  and 
active,  but  towards  the  brute  creation,  especially  the 


174       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

more  despised,  such  as  insects,  spiders,  snakes,  &c., 
from  which  you  would  shrink  affrighted  in  your  waking 
state,  you  would  manifest  a  strange  and  fearless  tender 
ness.  -  You  would  take  them  up,  if  injured,  in  your 
hands,  and  remove  them  to  a  place  of  safety.  Fond  of 
flowers  when  awake,  you  were  doubly  so  in  this  singular 
state.  .  You  would  manifest  an  intuitive  faculty  of  de 
tecting  the  seats  of  disease  in  persons ;  often  pointing 
out  the  part  aifected,  as  if  from  sympathy. 

"  I  cannot  recall,  in  this  hurried  letter,  half  the  inter 
esting  phenomena  witnessed  in  your  case  —  such  as 
your  insensibility  to  the  pain  of  an  incision  or  wound 
in  a  magnetized  limb  —  your  quick  reception  of  a 
mental  communication,  without  the  medium  of  any 
sound  or  sign  —  your  distinct  prevision  (at  one  time  six 
months  in  advance)  of  crises  of  disease  —  your  detection 
of  the  character  of  an  individual  by  pressing  the  hand 
—  your  ability  to  choose,  out  of  a  heap  of  miscellaneous 
articles,  the  one  magnetized  —  your  many  striking  de 
velopments  of  faculties  and  modes  of  thought  distin 
guishing  you,  in  a  marvellous  manner,  from  your 
waking  self. 

"  On  one  occasion,  at  a  time  when  you  had  suffered 
from  repeated  hemorrhages  at  the  lungs,  and  we  all 
feared  that  you  would  not  live  through  the  winter,  you 
were  kept  in  the  somnambulic  state  an  entire  fortnight 
without  being  once  wakened.  The  reason  for  this  was, 
that  while  somnambulic  you  were  far  more  manageable 
and  reliable  in  observing  all  necessary  precautions ;  and 
that  you  also  seemed  less  sensitive  to  the  cold,  and 
your  violent  attacks  of  coughing  were  much  more  under 
control.  At  the  time  you  were  thrown  into  the  som 
nambulic  state  on  this  occasion,  there  had  been  a  heavy 


PROLONGED    TRANCE.  175 

snow  storm,  and  Broadway,  in  New  York,  on  which 
thoroughfare  your  windows  looked,  was  blocked  up  with 
snow.  There  was  a  rose  bush  in  your  room,  having  a 
little  green  bud  upon  it,  upon  which  a  faint  speck  of 
crimson  had  just  appeared.  Your  last  impressions, 
when  you  were  thrown  into  somnambulism,  were  of  the 
snow  without  and  the  rose  bush  within.  A  fortnight 
afterwards,  your  magnetizer,  without  preparing  you  for 
the  change  in  surrounding  objects,  suddenly  awaked 
you  and  led  you  to  the  window.  Every  flake  of  the 
immense  accumulation  of  snow  had  disappeared.  He 
then  led  you  to  the  well-known  rose  bush.  The  little 
bud  was  in  full,  luxuriant  bloom  !  I  shall  never  forget 
the  expression  of  bewilderment  and  consternation  on 
your  face  as  you  looked  upon  changes  that  seemed  to 
strike  you  as  miraculous.  The  fortnight  was,  to  your 
waking  consciousness,  but  a  moment !  Such  was  your 
excessive  agitation  that  your  magnetizer  was  obliged  to 
make  the  passes  at  once,  and  restore  you  to  your  som- 
nambulic  consciousness.  He  then  gave  you  an  '  ordi 
nation  '  to  carry  into  your  waking  state  so  much  recol 
lection  of  your  fortnight's  experience  as  would  prepare 
you  fully  for  the  changes  around  you. 

"•  A  year  or  two  previously,  and  a  week  or  two  after 

you  were  first  magnetized  by  Dr.  C g,  which  was 

while  you  were  stopping  at  the  Astor  House,  in  Xew 
York,  in  the  winter  of  1842,  the  illness  under  which 
you  were  laboring  assumed  a  more  alarming  aspect  than 
it  had  yet  worn,  and,  while  somnambulic,  you  were 
charged  by  your  magnetizer  to  investigate  your  physical 
condition.  I  was  not  present,  but  learned,  the  same 
day,  that  you  had  predicted  a  great  crisis  in  your  mal 
ady  at  a  certain  hour  in  the  night,  the  week  following. 


176       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

To  the  inquiry,  whether  any  medical  relief  could  be 
given,  you  replied,  'No  drugs  —  mesmerism  may  pos 
sibly  bring  her  through.'  You  pronounced  yourself 
unc'Ttain  as  to  the  issue  of  the  crisis,  but  gave  great 

encouragement  to  Dr.  C g  to  believe  that  prompt 

and  earnest  mesmeric  aid  would  avail  in  producing  the 

required  relief.     On  the  night  fixed,  at  Dr.  C g's 

request,  I  accompanied  him  to  your  parlor  at  the  Astor 
House,  and  you  were  shortly  afterwards  mesmerized, 
and  I  was  put  in  communication.  Mr.  Mowatt  was 
present,  and  was  also  put  in  communication.  While 
awake,  you  had  not  had  the  slightest  anticipation  of 
what  was  expected,  and  no  one  had  intimated  your 
mesmeric  prediction. 

"  We  engaged  in  conversation,  and  had  some  hope  of 
drawing  your  mind  from  the  anticipated  attack.  You 
were  perfectly  tranquil,  and  conversed  freely  on  various 
subjects.  But  precisely  at  the  hour  you  hai  prevised 
and  predicted,  an  expression  of  the  intensest  pain  came 
upon  your  face,  and  you  fell  back  in  the  most  violent 

convulsions.     Dr.  C g   bore  yon  to  the  sofa  ;  but, 

though  a  strong  man,  his  strength  was  unequal  to  the 
task  of  controlling  the  horrible  spasms,  which  quivered 
through  all  your  limbs  and  disfigured  your  face.  At 
one  time,  every  fibre  was  knotted  into  a  state  of  iron 
rigidity.  Your  writhings  were  fearful  to  witness.  Dr. 

C g  pronounced  the  attack  congestion  of  the  brain. 

Your  face  was  purple,  your  forehead  throbbed  violently, 
and  your  skin  was  of  the  highest  fever  heat.  Dr. 

C g  used  no  other  ministration  than  the  mesmeric 

passes  throughout  the  attack,  which  lasted,  with  hardly 
an  instant's  cessation,  about  an  hour.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  there  was  a  sudden  relaxation  of  your  limbs, 


MESMERIC    FACTS.  177 

and  they  seemed  to  settle  into  a  state  of  repose.  Your 
countenance  became  pale,  and  we  half  feared  your  last 
earthly  moment  had  come.  But  a  smile  of  inexpres 
sible  sweetness  broke  forth,  (and  your  closed  eyes 
seemed  to  make  it  all  the  more  luminous,)  and  you  whis 
pered,  in  the  childlike  tone  which  was  peculiar  to  your 
sornnambulic  state,  '  You  have  brought  her  through.' 

'  Thank  God  ! '  exclaimed  Dr.  C g,  bursting  into 

tears,  with  uncontrollable  emotion. 

"  After  this  crisis  your  health  began  slowly  to  im 
prove,  though  your  lungs  were  still  very  sensitive,  and 
you  were  subjected  to  frequent  spitting  of  blood  and 
violent  fits  of  coughing,  which  kept  your  friends  contin 
ually  in  a  state  of  suspense  as  to  your  recovery. 

"  Your  exact  knowledge  of  time  in  the  somnambulic 
state  was  a  remarkable  trait.  No  chronometer  could  be 
more  exact.  It  seemed  as  if  all  nature  were  your  dial 
plate,  and  that  you  could  at  any  moment  read  what  its 
index  denoted. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  believe  it  is  only  those  somnambuks 
who  are  naturally  pliable  and  dependent  who  are  under 
the  entire  control  of  their  magnetizers.  There  was 
certainly  no  surrender  of  your  will  to  yours.  You  were 
the  dictator  to  him  on  all  occasions  as  to  what  you 
should  do.  You  prescribed  your  own  medicines  and 
diet ;  disputed,  argued,  and  disagreed  with  him  often  ; 
and  were  entirely  independent  of  him,  except  so  far  as 
related  to  the  keeping  up  of  the  magnetic  influence  by 
an  occasional  visit  from  him  and  a  renewal  (without 
touch)  of  the  passes.  He  would  leave  you  in  the  som 
nambulic  state  with  Mr.  Mowatt  or  your  sister,  and, 
perhaps,  not  see  you  again  for  twenty-four  hours. 

"  Although,  in  this  state,  you  were  always  cheerful, 
12 


178      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

and  sometimes  jocose,  one  of  its  most  prominent  devel 
opments  was  that  of  your  religious  faculties  and  sym 
pathies.  Frequently  you  would  talk,  like  one  inspired, 
of  spiritual  realities  and  the  meaning  of  life.  What  in 
your  waking  state  was  faith,  seemed  to  be  sight  in  your 
somnambulic.  It  was  no  longer  a  speculation,  or  even 
a  belief,  that  there  was  a  life  after  death,  but  a  knowl 
edge,  far  more  confident  and  assured  than  that  which  we 
usually  entertain,  on  going  to  bed,  that  we  shall  wake 
in  the  morning. 

"  In  crises  of  disease,  when  your  physician  did  not 
believe  you  would  live  through  the  week,  he  would  tell 
you,  in  your  somnambulic  state,  his  apprehensions, 
though  it  would  have  been  dangerous  to  communicate 
them  to  you  awake.  The  perfect  equanimity,  even 
cheerfulness,  with  which  you  would  receive  such  an 
nouncements,  was  matter  of  surprise  to  all  who  wit 
nessed  it.  In  times  of  extreme  emaciation,  when  you 
could  be  lifted  like  a  child,  and  when  all  who  looked  on 
you  and  heard  your  paroxysms  of  coughing  would  turn 
away  with  the  persuasion  that  you  could  not  '  last 
through  the  season,'  you  had  always,  in  your  somnam 
bulic  state,  some  pleasantry  with  which  to  dispel  the 
fears  of  the  standers  by.  The  truth  was,  that,  though 
you  regarded  death  as  a  welcome  emancipation,  you 
still  knew,  far  better  than  the  doctor,  the  physical  state 
of  the  'simpleton,'  as  you  used  to  call  your  waking 
self,  and  relied  upon  mesmerism  to  bring  her  through. 

"Your  views  of  death,  at  the  same  time,  in  your 
somnambulic  state,  were  always  so  serenely  assured, 
and  such  was  the  quiet  satisfaction  with  which  you 
seemed  to  look  forward  on  what  John  Sterling  calls 
'the  common  road  into  the  great  darkness,'  that,  the 


VISIT    TO    A    FORMER    HOME.  179 

nearer  the  prospect  was  brought,  the  more  grateful  it 
became  ;  or  rather,  to  you  there  was  no  darkness,  but 
it  was  all  a  rosy  light,  and  to  your  mind 

'  This  King  of  Terrors  was  the  Prince  of  Peace.' 

"  The  separation  of  the  waking  from  the  somnambulic 
consciousness  in  your  case  was  most  complete  and  per 
fect.  Never,  by  any  accident,  could  I  discover  that 
you  brought  into  your  waking  state  the  slightest  recol 
lection  of  what  had  occurred  in  your  somnambuli2 ; 
and  this  during  a  period  of  three  years.  To  the  psy 
chologist,  as  well  as  the  physiologist,  all  the  phenomena 
of  your  case  were  intensely  interesting,  as  the  many  per 
sons  who  had  an  opportunity  of  investigating  them  will 
admit." 

During  my  illness,  the  beloved  home  which  I  had 
made  such  efforts  to  save  was  sold.  As  soon  as  I  was 
able  to  drive  out,  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  visit  it  once 
again.  It  was  spring,  but  a  late  spring.  Not  a  tree 
had  begun  to  bud.  The  gardens,  which  I  had  last  seen 
in  all  the  richness  of  their  autumn  bloom,  were  bare 
of  leaf  or  flower,  excepting  a  few  crocuses  that  had 
pierced  through  the  slowly-melting  snow.  The  favorite 
arbor  appeared  more  bleak  and  desolate  even  than  the 
gardens.  Brown  and  withered  vine  stems  alone  covered 
the  trellis,  where  huge  clusters  of  grapes  had  hung  in 
purple  luxuriance.  Even  the  greenhouse  had  a  de 
serted  air.  Many  of  the  flowers  had  been  removed, 
many  more  had  died,  and  those  that  remained  were  suf 
fering  from  neglect.  "We  looked  around  for  the  helio 
trope  of  hair-decking  memory  —  it  was  gone.  After 
wandering  about  the  grounds  until  we  wrere  chilled  in 
more  senses  than  one,  we  took  refuge  in  the  house. 


180      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  unfurnished  rooms  had  a  cold,  deserted  aspect,  but 
to  me  every  nook  and  corner  teemed  with  delightful  as 
sociations.  I  co*ld  scarcely  compel  myself  to  believe 
that  this  house  would  nevermore  be  our  home ;  that  in 
this  bright,  cheerful  chamber  I  should  never  again 
sleep ;  that  there  would  be  no  more  merrymeetings  in 
this  large,  old-fashioned  ball  room,  which  at  Christmas 
time  was  ever  decked  with  evergreens,  and  oti^  sum 
mer  festivities  ever  garlanded  with  flowers;  that  there 
would  be  no  more  plays  in  our  little  theatre,  no  more 
bands  of  music  in  the  old  hall.  But  so  it  was.  Yet, 
when  the  certainty  of  what  must  be  resigned  came  upon 
me,  its  pain  had  been  abstracted.  The  loss  was  heavy, 
but  could  be  reckoned ;  the  gain  since  that  loss  no 
human  reckoning  could  measure. 

It  was  arranged  that  if  my  health  were  sufficiently 
restored  I  should  resume  my  public  readings  in  the 
autumn,  making  the  tour  of  the  United  States  for  that 
purpose. 

We  passed  the  summer  at  Lennox,  —  one  of  the  most 
picturesquely  beautiful  localities  I  ever  visited, — 
a  summer  brightened  by  constant  intercourse  with  the 
gifted  Miss  Sedgwick  and  her  genial  relatives.  Mrs. 
Charles  Sedgwick  kept  a  seminary  for  young  ladies. 
Amongst  her  scholars  were  a  number  of  charming  girls. 
We  soon  became  acquainted,  and  they  used  to  treat  me 
as  a  companion,  crowding  my  apartment  at  every  re 
cess,  and  bringing  me  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  other 
simple  offerings  of  affection.  I  grew  warmly  attached 
to  many  of  them,  as  I  believe  they  were  to  me.  They 
made  me  listen  to  their  grievances,  or  join  in  their 
games,  or  read  aloud  for  their  amusement.  Then  came 
the  usual  schoolgirl  interchange  of  locks  of  hair  and 


inss  SEDGWICK'S  PLAY.  181 

pressed  flowers.  I  still  preserve  a  goodly  pile  of  curls, 
ringlets,  and  braids  of  various  hues,  that  remind  me  of 
lovely  Lennox  schoolgirls,  now  wives  and  mothers. 

Miss  Sedgwick  wrote  them  a  play,  and  they  pressed 
me  into  service  as  stage  manager,  costumer,  and 
prompter.  The  rehearsals  were  particularly  amus 
ing.  There  were  some  tragic  effects  necessary,  and 
my  young  pupils  found  the  greatest  diversion  in  learn 
ing  how  to  stab  themselves  gracefully  and  die  in  atti 
tude.  I  devoted  a  week  to  teaching  them  their  parts, 
planning  their  costumes,  and  making  tow  wigs  to  repre 
sent  the  gray  hairs  of  age  or  the  powdered  toupees  of 
English  footmen. 

The  play  was  performed  before  a  numerous  assem 
blage  of  Mrs.  Sedgwick's  friends.  It  was  highly  suc 
cessful.  The  girls  acted  with  great  spirit,  and  even  the 
tow  wigs  "  made  a  hit."  I  was  busily  engaged  behind 
the  scenes  during  the  performance,  but  joined  the  com 
pany  in  the  drawing  room  at  its  conclusion.  Feeling 
greatly  fatigued,  I  was  just  planning  how  I  could  steal 
off  unnoticed,  when  the  door  was  thrown  open  with  an 
emphasis  that  announced  some  important  entrance. 
The  scholars  in  procession  walked  in,  the  eldest  bear 
ing  a  wreath  of  white  flowers.  The  crowd  drew  back, 
and  the  young  girls  approached  their  amateur  manager. 
I  could  only  stare  at  them  in  mute  and  embarrassed 
astonishment.  The  crownbearer  made  me  a  simple 
and  feeling  address,  and  placed  the  wreath  upon  my 
head  —  a  very  tired,  aching  head  it  chanced  to  be. 
This  was  a  part  of  the  performance  which  I  had  not 
anticipated.  Of  course,  it  was  necessary  to  say  some 
thing;  but  I  fancy  I  made  a  rather  stupid  and  awkward 
acknowledgment,  for  I  was  taken  unawares,  supposing 


182      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

that  the  curtain  had  fallen  upon  my  portion  of  the  en 
tertainment,  and  left  me  where  I  had  passed  the  even 
ing  —  happily  behind  the  scenes. 

The  distinguished  divine,  Dr.  "William  Ellery  Chan- 
ning,  was  an  honored  guest  at  this  performance.  He 
was  warm  in  his  expressions  of  delight,  and  many  times 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  clapped  his  hands,  and  laughed 
with  genuine  enjoyment.  Some  of  the  guests  remarked, 
that,  in  watching  him,  they  forgot  to  look  at  the  play. 

He  said  to  me  afterwards,  "  I  was  never  in  a  theatre 
but  once  in  my  life,  and  that  was  when  I  was  travelling 
in  England.  I  saw  Othello,  but  I  was  not  half  so  much 
entertained  as  I  have  been  to-night  with  the  perform 
ance  of  these  young  girls." 

Dr.  Channing  and  his  family  resided  in  the  same 
hotel  with  us.  We  spent  many  hours  together,  and  I 
was  never  tired  of  listening  to  his  eloquent  discourse, 
and  watching  the  brilliant  play  of  his  benign  counte 
nance.  One  day  I  was  sitting  on  the  piazza,  reading 
aloud  to  Mr.  Mowatt.  The  book  was  Swedenborg's 
Divine  Providence.  A  slight  movement  behind  my 
chair  caused  me  to  turn.  Dr.  Channing  was  leaning 
against  the  open  door,  apparently  listening.  He  told 
me  to  go  on,  and  I  had  no  excuse  for  not  obeying.  I 
read  for  some  time  uninterruptedly.  At  length  he  ac 
costed  me  with,  "  Do  you  understand  what  you  are 
reading  ?  " 

I  replied,  « I  think  I  do." 

"  Do  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  makes  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"  Because  I  can't  help  it." 

"  That's  a  woman's  reason,"  he  answered,  laughing ; 
"  but  I  believe  it  is  the  strongest  you  could  give." 


DK.   WILLIAM   ELLERY    CHANNING.  183 

He  then  told  me  that  he  had  read  a  portion  of  Swe- 
denborg's  works  with  great  attention,  and  he  reverenced 
the  author,  although  the  doctrines  had  not,  as  yet,  carried 
the  same  conviction  to  his  mind  as  they  had  done  to 
ours. 

In  the  subject  of  mesmerism  he  took  the  deepest  in 
terest.  On  two  occasions  he  persuaded  me  to  allow 
myself  to  be  placed  under  the  influence,  that  he  might 
satisfy  himself  on  several  doubtful  points.  One  was  of 
the  possibility  of  mind  communicating  with  mind  with 
out  the  medium  of  language  or  any  material  sign.  His 
experiment,  I  believe,  convinced  him  that  this  could  be 
the  case. 

I  recited,  at  his  request,  several  of  the  selections 
which  I  had  read  in  public.  He  now  and  then  kindly 
pointed  out  defects  in  elocution  or  faulty  pronuncia 
tions.  And  even  now  I  can  never  utter  one  or  two  of 
the  words  in  the  pronunciation  of  which  he  corrected 
me  without  thinking  of  Dr.  Channing.  The  day  be 
fore  we  parted  he  came  to  my  room  and  asked  me  to 
read  to  him  once  more.  I  did  so,  and  he  then  proposed 
in  return  to  read  to  me.  He  chose  Bryant's  exquisite 
poem  of  the  Future  Life.  His  silvery  tones  were 
tremulous  as  he  read,  and  his  mild  eyes  beamed  with  a 
lustre  almost  angelic.  In  his  manner  there  was  some 
thing  so  solemn  and  impressive  that  I  listened  with  awe. 
In  less  than  a  month  he  himself  entered  that  future 
life, 

"  The  sphere  that  keeps 
The  disimbodied  spirits  of  the  dead." 

He  was  standing  on  its  threshold  when  he  read  to  me. 
I  might  well  hearken  with  suspended  breath,  in  rapt  and 
wondering  reverence. 


CHAPTER   X 


Contributions  to  Magazines.  —  The  Fortune  Hunter.  —  Miscella 
neous  Bookmaking. —  Evelyn. — Amusing  Proposition  from  an 
English  Publisher.  —  Singular  Mode  of  violating  a  Copyright.  — 
Mary  Howitfs  Mention  of  the  three  Orphans.  —  Little  Esther.  — 
Death  Bed  of  the  Mother.  —  One's  Neighbors.  —  Drive  to  Har 
lem.  — Search  for  the  Greys.  —  A  blind  Father.  —  Margaret.  — 
Death  of  her  Father  and  Mother.  —  Johnny  and  Willie. 


AUTUMN  did  not  find  me  sufficiently  reestablished  in 
health  to  resume  my  public  readings,  as  was  proposed. 
This  was  a  heavy  disappointment,  but  I  was  well 
enough  for  less  fatiguing  occupation.  So  little  had 
been  saved  from  the  wreck  of  our  fortune  that  there 
was  strong  need  for  exertion.  I  wrote  a  series  of  lively 
articles  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Helen  Berkley." 
They  were  published  in  various  popular  magazines,  and 
I  was  well  remunerated.  These  articles  consisted  of 
sketches  of  celebrated  persons  with  whom  I  had  been 
brought  into  communication,  and  humorous  stories,  gen 
erally  founded  on  fact.  The  larger  portion  of  them 
have  since  appeared  in  London  magazines.  Several 
were  translated  into  German,  and  reprinted.  Under  my 
own  name  I  at  that  time  published  nothing  but  verse. 

I  had  half  determined  to  attempt  a  tale  of  some 
length,  and  was  pondering  upon  the  subject,  when  a 
friend  informed  me  that  the  New  "World  newspaper  had 
offered  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  best  original  novel  in 
one  volume.  The  title  must  be  the  Fortune  Hunter 

(184) 


THE    FORTUNE    HUNTER.  185 

and  the  scene  laid  in  New  York.  The  novel  must  be 
completed  in  a  month,  or  within  six  weeks  at  the 
latest. 

"  Why  do  you  not  try  what  you  can  do  ?  "  said  my 
friend.  "  Write  a  story  in  your  Mrs.  Berkley  style  — 
you  can  easily  make  the  title  apply.  Ten  to  one  your 
novel  will  be  the  one  accepted." 

Thus  encouraged,  I  lost  no  time,  and  that  very  day 
made  the  sketch  of  a  plot,  which  I  submitted  to  my 
counsellor  and  friend.  He  approved,  and  I  went  to 
work  diligently.  At  the  time  appointed,  the  book  was 
completed.  It  was  presented  to  the  Xew  World  publish 
ers,  and  the  note  for  one  hundred  dollars  sent  me  in  re 
turn,  was  the  most  agreeable  evidence  of  its  acceptance. 
The  Fortune  Hunter  had  an  extensive  sale,  and,  after 
my  identity  with  Mrs.  Berkley  became  known,  the  pub 
lishers  chose  to  affix  my  name  to  the  work.  The  copy 
right  being  theirs,  my  consent  was  not  even  asked. 

I  was  very  much  amused  by  an  article  that  appeared 
in  one  of  the  papers  accusing  me  of  being  an  imitator 
of  Mrs.  Berkley,  and  more  than  hinting  that  the  imita 
tion  fell  far  short  of  the  original. 

The  Fortune  Hunter  has  lately  been  translated  into 
German. 

I  continued  to  write  for  various  magazines  —  the 
Columbian,  Democratic  Review,  Ladies'  Companion, 
Godey's,  Graham's,  &c.  I  used  fictitious  names,  and 
sometimes  supplied  the  same  number  of  a  magazine 
with  several  articles,  only  one  of  which  was  supposed 
to  be  my  own.  I  also  prepared  for  the  press  a  number 
of  works,  the  copyrights  of  which  were  purchased  by 
Messrs.  Burgess  &  Stringer.  They  were  principally 
compilations,  with  as  much  or  as  little  original  matter 


186       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

as  was  found  necessary  —  book  cement,  to  make  the  odd 
fragments  adhere  together.  The  subjects  of  these  books 
were  not  of  my  own  choosing  —  I  wrote  to  order,  for 
profit,  and  to  supply  the  demands  of  the  public.  In 
this  manner  were  produced  Housekeeping  made  Easy, 
(the  name  of  Mrs.  Ellis  was  not  affixed  by  me,)  Book 
of  the  Toilette,  Cookery  for  the  Sick,  Book  of  Embroid 
ery,  Knitting,  Netting,  and  Crotchet,  Etiquette  for 
Ladies,  Ball-room  Etiquette,  Etiquette  of  Matrimony, 
and  similar  publications,  the  very  names  of  which  I  can 
not  now  remember. 

These  books,  especially  the  first,  proved  very  profit 
able,  so  much  so  that  Mr.  Mowatt  concluded  he  would 
derive  greater  benefit  by  publishing  the  works  I  com 
piled  himself  than  by  selling  the  copyright  to  other 
publishers.  He  accordingly  established  a  firm,  and  his 
books  were  supplied  chiefly  by  me.  The  success  of  the 
undertaking  was  of  brief  duration. 

My  time  was  wholly  engrossed  in  bookmaking ;  but 
having  now  more  freedom  of  choice  as  regarded  the 
works  I  prepared,  cookery  books  and  books  on  etiquette 
were  gladly  abandoned.  I  found  more  congenial  occu 
pation  in  abridging  a  Life  of  Goethe,  and  another  of 
Madame  D'Arblay.  The  pleasure,  however,  was  of  a 
particularly  private  nature,  for  the  books  proved  un 
salable.  Not  a  little  disheartened  by  their  failure,  I 
returned  to  my  labors  in  a  less  interesting  but  more  lu 
crative  field  of  literature. 

I  could  not  drudge  always,  —  for  this  book  compiling 
f  was  unmitigated  drudgery,  —  and  during  leisure  mo- 
J  ments  I  amused  myself  by  writing  Evelyn,  a  domestic 
tale,  in  two  volumes.  Frederika  Bremer's  works,  trans 
lated  by  Mary  Howitt,  were  my  favorites  amongst  mod- 


EVELYN.  187 

ern  novels.  The  delight  with  which  I  perused  them 
undoubtedly  influenced  the  style  in  which  Evelyn  was 
written. 

Evelyn  herself  was  not  an  ideal  creation.  I  could 
never  write  mere  fiction ;  I  needed  a  groundwork  of 
reality.  Her  history  was  that  of  one  wnom  I  had 
dearly  loved  —  over  whose  tomb  there  are  few  to  weep, 
but  whose  sin  we  may  dare  to  hope  was  forgiven,  for 
"  she  loved  much." 

When  the  book  was  completed,  an  English  literary 
gentleman  proposed  that  I  should  allow  him  to  take  the 
manuscript  to  London,  and  have  it  published  there  pre 
vious  to  its  appearance  in  this  country.  I  consented,  and 
a  few  months  afterwards  received  a  notice  from  a  London 
publisher  that  he  would  purchase  the  English  copyright 
and  produce  the  book,  if  I  would  write  a  third  volume. 
He  assured  me  that  nobody  purchased  novels  in  two 
volumes  —  all  the  popular  writers  of  the  day  extended 
their  romances  to  three.  As  the  second  volume  of  Eve 
lyn  ends  with  the  heroine's  death,  I  did  not  see  how  I 
could  with  propriety  bring  her  to  life  and  prolong  her 
miseries  through  another  volume.  The  offer  of  the 
London  publisher  was  politely  declined.  Evelyn  was 
published,  as  originally  written,  by  Carey  &  Hart,  of 
Philadelphia.  Owing  to  the  delay  occasioned  in  re 
gaining  possession  of  the  manuscript,  the  work  was  not 
produced  until  I  had  made  my  debut  upon  the  stage. 
This  event  probably  accounted  for  its  rapid  sale.  The 
copyright  fortunately  remained  in  my  own  possession. 

A  rather  singular  violation  of  this  copyright  took 
place  in  Cincinnati.  The  book  was  abridged  into  one 
volume,  and  published,  with  a  wretched  frontispiece,  as 
a  sort  of  souvenir  for  young  ladies.  The  word  London 


188       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

was  to  be  found  upon  the  titlepage ;  but  the  type,  pa 
per,  and  general  getting  up  of  the  book  betrayed  this 
to  be  a  mere  ruse  de  guerre.  This  mangled  edition 
appears  also  to  have  had  a  sale.  Its  existence  was  a 
source  of  much  annoyance,  but  could  not  be  prevented 
without  the  institution  of  legal  proceedings.  These 
were  not  taken. 

Incidents  of  a  different  nature  belong  to  this  period. 

Mary  Howitt,  in  her  memoir  of  me,  makes  affection 
ate  mention  of  three  orphan  children,  who  were  pro 
tected  and  educated  by  Mr.  Mowatt  and  myself,  as 
though  the  act  were  one  of  premeditated  and  intentional 
charity.  This  was  not  so.  I  should  consider  our  first 
acquaintance  and  whole  intercourse  with  the  family  of 
the  Greys  as  merely  accidental,  could  I  believe  that 
that  word  applied  to  any  event  of  life.  Providential  it 
certainly  was  to  them,  and  we  were  but  unconscious  in 
struments  in  the  hands  of  a  higher  Power.  The  cir 
cumstances  which  led  to  our  becoming  interested  in  the 
children  of  the  Greys  were  these.  Returning  from  a 
drive  one  severely  cold  day  in  November,  I  noticed  a 
little  beggar  girl,  thinly  clad,  who  was  seated  upon  our 
doorsteps,  sobbing  violently.  She  cried  like  a  child  in 
real  distress.  I  stopped  to  ask  what  ailed  her,  and 
could  gain  no  answer  but  tears.  As  I  was  still  an  in 
valid,  and  dared  not  remain  in  the  cold,  I  told  the  ser 
vant  to  make  the  little  girl  come  into  the  parlor  to  talk 
with  me.  She  was  brought  in  with  some  difficulty,  but 
gradually  the  warm  fire  thawed  her  half-frozen  limbs, 
and  perhaps  her  heart. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  are  crying  about ! "  had  been 
repeated  some  twenty  times,  in  all  varieties  of  coaxing 
intonations,  before  I  could  gain  a  reply. 


LITTLE    ESTHER.  189 

At  last  her  tongue  was  unloosed,  and  she  sobbed  out, 
"  Mother's  very  ill,  and  they  say  she  is  dying !  Fa 
ther's  got  no  work,  and  sent  me  out  for  cold  victuals  ;  but 
I  can't  get  nothing,  and  your  cook  turned  me  out  of  the 
kitchen." 

Little  Esther's  grief  was  too  genuine  for  me  to  doubt 
her  story.  I  inquired  where  her  mother  lived.  The 
distance  was  very  short.  I  had  not  thrown  aside  my 
hat  and  cloak ;  it  was  easy  to  accompany  her  home. 
She  took  me  to  a  dilapidated  building,  and  we  entered 
a  small,  close  room.  Upon  a  cot  in  one  corner  lay  a 
young  woman,  whose  ghastly  features  betokened  acute 
suffering.  A  puny  infant,  about  two  or  three  weeks 
old,  rested  upon  Iver  arm.  The  little  creature  was 
moaning  piteously,  but  seemed  too  feeble  to  cry.  In 
stead  of  the  plump  ruddiness  of  first  babyhood,  its  face 
was  as  pallid  as  that  of  the  mother,  and  far  more 
wrinkled. 

The  woman  told  me  her  history  —  it  was  one  of  utter 
destitution.  She  added,  that  she  believed  herself  to  be 
dying ;  but  her  chief  anxiety  was  for  her  children.  I 
promised  to  visit  her  occasionally,  and  to  interest  others 
in  her  behalf,  and  left,  desiring  her  to  send  little  Esther 
to  see  me  the  next  morning. 

Esther  was  a  dark-eyed,  bright  little  creature,  and,  I 
thought,  affectionate.  When  she  came  in  the  morning, 
I  sent  her  home  to  tell  her  mother  that,  if  the  latter 
chose,  I  would  keep  the  child  to  run  on  errands  and 
wait  upon  me,  and  that  I  would  take  as  good  care  of 
her  as  I  could.  I  had  no  particular  use  for  her,  but  I 
loved  the  presence  of  childhood  about  the  house.  The 
mother  returned  her  thanks  and  hearty  consent.  With 
the  assistance  of  my  sisters,  Esther  was  soon  furnished 


190      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

with  a  suitable  wardrobe,  and  her  ragged,  "  cold-victual 
clothes  "  (as  she  used  to  call  them)  were  exchanged  for 
neat  and  comfortable  attire.  She  seemed  happy  in  her 
new  home,  and  gave  me  little  trouble.  I  accompanied 
her  to  see  her  mother  at  short  intervals.  For  a  month 
the  poor  woman  gradually  grew  worse.  One  Sunday 
afternoon  Esther  rushed  into  the  room  greatly  agitated, 
and  said,  "  Come  quickly  to  my  mother  —  she  is 
dying !  " 

I  went.  The  room  was  filled  with  the  Roman  Cath 
olic  friends  of  the  dying  woman,  who  were  performing 
the  last  ordinances  of  their  religion.  They  drew  back, 
and  allowed  me  to  approach  the  bed  with  the  child. 
The  mother  tried  to  speak,  but  couljpl  not.  She  feebly 
lifted  her  hand,  looked  in  my  face,  and  smiled  as  the 
dying  only  can  smile.  A  few  moments  afterwards  she 
expired. 

Esther,  for  some  days,  was  almost  inconsolable  for 
the  loss  of  her  mother,  and  was  often  at  home,  taking 
care  of  her  baby  sister.  I  wish  I  were  not  compelled 
to  allude  to  the  father,  one  of  the  coarsest  specimens  of 
an  Irishman  that  could  well  be  found.  In  less  than  a 
week  after  his  wife's  funeral  he  called  upon  Mr.  Mowatt, 
and  demanded  wages  for  his  daughter  —  a  child  not  yet 
ten  years  of  age.  Mr.  Mowatt  explained  to  him  that 
she  was  only  allowed  to  remain  in  the  house  to  please 
me  ;  that  she  was  too  young  to  be  of  any  service ;  and 
that  all  indebtedness  was  on  the  side  of  the  parent. 
The  man  rudely  replied,  that,  if  he  couldn't  get  pay  for 
her,  she  should  be  taken  home  immediately.  He  knew 
that  I  was  attached  to  the  child,  and  supposed  that  we 
would  yield  to  his  demands  rather  than  part  with  her. 
His  threat  was  put  in  execution,  and  the  weeping  little 
girl  was  taken  back  to  her  former  wretched  home. 


ONE'S  NEIGHBORS.  191 

It  is  proverbial  that  one's  neighbors  have  an  accurate 
knowledge  of  one's  domestic  affairs.  Our  neighbors 
had  remarked  the  transformation  of  the  little  "  cold- 
victual  girl "  into  a  neatly-dressed,  merry-looking  at 
tendant.  They  had  become  acquainted  with  the  his 
tory  of  the  mother  and  the  ungracious  conduct  of  the 
father.  His  ingratitude  was  a  theme  constantly  dis 
cussed.  I  was,  of  course,  duly  pitied  for  having  had 
any  thing  to  do  with  such  a  man ;  and  the  little  I  had 
accomplished  for  the  child  was  greatly  exaggerated, 
and  lauded  about  ten  times  as  much  as  it  deserved 
to  be. 

The  remark  of  a  seamstress,  who  was  sewing  for  our 
opposite  neighbors,  was  repeated  to  a  domestic  of  mine. 
"  If  Mrs.  Mowatt  is  fond  of  children,  and  cares  any 
thing  about  poor  people,"  said  the  seamstress,  "  I  wish 
somebody  would  tell  her  of  the  Greys,  an  English  fam 
ily,  who  are  living  in  Harlem.  They  are  people  that 
have  seen  better  days  ;  but  the  father  is  blind.  There 
are  several  children,  —  one  of  them  a  sweet  little  girl,  a 
much  finer  child  than  that  Esther,  —  and  they  are  actu 
ally  starving." 

This  speech  was  communicated  to  me.  It  did  not 
make  any  particular  impression  at  the  time;  but  the 
next  day  the  words  kept  coming  into  my  head  again  and 
again,  and  I  could  not  help  wondering  whether  the 
Greys  really  were  starving  —  whether  any  thing  could 
be  done  for  them — whether  I  should  not  like  the  little 
girl  in  Esther's  place,  &c.,  &c.  Very  soon  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else  —  the  Greys  were  always  in 
my  mind.  I  could  not  sleep  without  dreaming  of  them, 
or  wake  without  longing  to  know  something  of  their  his 
tory.  I  could  not  interest  myself  in  my  usual  occupa- 


192      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTKESS. 

tions.  I  was  thoroughly  idle,  restless,  and  uncomfort 
able. 

Two  days  passed  thus,  and  on  the  third  I  came  to  the 
conr-lusion  that  I  would  drive  to  Harlem.  I  was  seldom 
allowed  to  venture  out  at  all  in  very  cold  weather. 
This  was  a  much  longer  drive  than  I  was  considered 
able  to  take  ;  therefore  I  said  nothing  of  my  determi 
nation  to  Mr.  Mowatt.  I  knew  he  would  object  on  the 
plea  of  my  health.  As  soon  as  I  was  left  alone,  I  de 
spatched  a  message  to  our  opposite  neighbor,  requesting 
that  she  would  send  me  the  address  of  the  Greys.  The 
answer  returned  was  that  the  seamstress  who  had 
spoken  of  them  had  gone  home.  She  had  said  that 
they  lived  somewhere  in  Harlem,  and  that  a  Mr. 

G n,  who  kept  a  hotel  there,  knew  all  about  them, 

and  could  answer  for  their  respectability.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  people  herself. 

This  was  information  scanty  enough,  but  in  my  rest 
less  and  excited  state  of  mind  it  sufficed.  I  sent  for  a 
carriage,  and  told  the  coachman  to  drive  to  Harlem,  and 
stop  at  the  first  hotel.  The  carriage  stopped  after  what 
seemed  to  my  impatience  a  very  long  drive.  "  Is  Mr. 

G n  the  proprietor  of  this  hotel  ?  "  was  the  inquiry 

made  to  the  waiter,  who,  with  an  air  of  great  empresse- 
ment,  opened  the  carriage  door. 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Do  you  know  what  hotel  in  Harlem  he  keeps  ?  " 

The  answer  was  also  in  the  negative.  We  drove  to 
another  hotel,  and  still  another,  but  at  both  the  exist 
ence  of  any  Mr.  G n  was  ignored.  At  a  fourth 

the  proprietor  himself  chanced  to  be  standing  on  the 
piazza.  In  answer  to  the  usual  question,  he  somewhat 
pompously  proclaimed  his  own  proprietorship,  and  offered 
to  hand  me  out  of  the  carriage. 


STARCH  FOR  THE  GREYS.  193 

"  I  wish  you  could  tell  me  what  hotel  Mr.  G n 

keeps ;  I  am  very  anxious  to  find  it  out."  I  said  to  him 
in  a  somewhat  appealing  manner,  for  I  was  beginning 
to  get  discouraged.  « 

"I  know  all  the  hotels  hereabouts,  and  there's  no 

Mr.  G n  keeps  any  of  them.     You'll  find  mine  as 

good  as  the  best  of  them,  ma'am." 

"  It  is  Mr.  G n  himself  I  want.     Do  you  know 

any  person  in  Harlem  of  that  name  ?  " 

"  There's  an  individual  that  keeps  a  place  where  they 

sell  spirits,  and  his  name,  is  G n  ;  but  I  don't  suppose 

that's  what  the  lady  wants,"  replied  the  man,  with  so 
decidedly  insolent  an  expression  that  it  took  some  cour 
age  to  address  him  again. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  give  my  coachman  the  direction," 
I  managed  to  reply.  I  was  becoming  tremblingly  alive 
to  the  folly  of  my  expedition. 

After  a  rude  stare,  and  an  evident  inclination  to 
indulge  me  with  some  further  remarks,  —  probably  upon 
the  eccentricity  of  my  tastes  and  conduct,  —  the  man 
obeyed. 

We   drove  to  "  the  place  where  spirits  were  sold." 

Mr.  G n  lived  there,  but  was  not  at  home.     I  sent 

for  Mrs.  G n.     She  also  was  out.     The  message 

was  brought  by  a  little  girl  about  eight  or  nine  years 
old. 

"  Is  there  not  any  body  in  the  house  to  whom  I  can 
speak  ?  "  I  inquired  of  her. 

"  Only  me  —  every  body  is  out." 

"Does  your  father  know  the  Greys,  an  English 
family,  who  live  somewhere  in  Harlem  ?  " 

"  Is  it  the  blind  Mr.  Grey  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  he's  blind." 
13 


194      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

"  0,  we  know  him,  and  Mrs.  Grey,  and  the  children." 

"  Are  they  poor  ?  " 

The  little  girl  laughed,  as  though  she  already  under 
stood  the  distinction  between  rich  and  poor,  and  replied, 
"  Well,  I  guess  they  be  !  " 

I  asked  her  to  tell  the  coachman  where  they  lived.  I 
never  expected  him  to  find  the  place  when  I  heard  her 
puzzling  direction  of,  "  After  you  turn  the  corner,  you 
go  to  the  right  —  then  down  to  the  left — then  take  the 
first  street,"  &c.,  &c.,  but  he  did  find  it  without  much 
difficulty.  The  house  —  or  shanty,  as  it  might  more 
properly  be  called  —  stood  back  some  distance  from  the 
road.  The  snow  lay  on  the  ground  at  least  a  foot  deep. 
There  was  no  pathway  through  it  to  the  door.  The 
coachman,  who  was  accustomed  to  drive  me,  begged 
that  I  would  sit  still  until  he  had  trampled  it  down  to 
form  a  narrow  path.  I  then  alighted,  and  he  remained 
with  his  horses.  No  answer  came  to  my  repeated 
knockings  at  the  street  door.  I  opened  it,  and  went  in. 
I  knocked  at  the  first  door  within  —  no  answer.  I 
opened  it  —  the  room  was  empty  both  of  furniture  and 
inhabitants.  I  tried  room  after  room,  but  with  the 
same  result. 

While  I  was  still  searching,  a  large  dog  started  from 
some  unnoticed  corner  and  leaped  upon  me,  as  though 
to  be  caressed.  This  was  the  first  sign  of  life  that  I 
beheld.  I  made  friends  wim  the  dog,  as  the  best  means 
of  self-defence.  After  playing  about  me  in  a  manner 
which  seemed  a  dumb  welcome,  he  ran  to  a  sort  of  outer 
building,  —  so  I  think  it  was,  —  and  I  followed.  Here 
he  scratched  at  the  door,  and  I  thought  it  advisable  to 
knock. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  voice  of  a  man. 


MR.    GREY.  195 

I  entered  a  room  where  poverty  had  undisputed 
reign.  The  floor  was  bare  —  scarcely  an  article  of  fur 
niture  was  to  be  seen.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood 
a  small  stove ;  but  the  fire  had  quite  died  out,  though  it 
was  a  piercingly  cold  day.  In  front  of  the  stove  lay  a 
little  boy,  hah0  naked,  and  shivering  with  the  cold. 
Upon  a  small  wooden  box  sat  a  baby,  strapped  by  its 
waist  to  the  back  of  a  chair.  Beside  them,  so  close  to 
the  stove  that  his  clothes  must  have  burned  had  there 
been  any  fire  within,  sat  their  father. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  Mr.  Grey  lives  here  ?  "  I  asked, 
on  entering. 

The  man  rose  with  a  kind  of  dignity  that  I  did  not 
look  for  in  so  rude  a  place,  and  bowing,  answered,  "  My 
name  is  Grey." 

He  advanced  to  find  me  a  chair,  but  with  uncertain 
steps,  and  one  hand  extended  as  though  feeling  his  way. 
By  his  movement  only  could  one  have  divined  that  he 
was  blind.  His  eyes  were  large,  of  a  clear,  light  blue, 
and  did  not  seem  to  me  wholly  expressionless.  He  was 
tall,  well  made,  and  handsome,  in  spite  of  the  traces  of 
suffering  upon  his  countenance.  I  could  not  but  notice 
the  courtesy  of  his  manner  as  he  bowed  on  offering  me 
the  seat.  I  entered  into  conversation  with  him  —  his 
language  was  not  that  of  an  uneducated  man.  I  drew 
from  him  his  history,  thou^^he  was  evidently  inclined 
to  be  reserved.  He  had  oeen  cheated  by  his  partner 
while  conducting  a  prosperous  business,  either  in  Eng 
land  or  Ireland,  I  forget  which.  The  partner  had  ab 
sconded,  and  Mr.  Grey,  totally  ruined,  had  brought  his 
family  to  America,  in  the  hope  of  almost  "  digging  gold 
in  the  streets."  Shortly  after  his  arrival  in  New  York, 
his  eyes  began  to  trouble  him,  and  he  soon  became  so 


196      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

blind  that  lie  could  barely  distinguish  light  from  dark 
ness.  His  wife  had  tried  to  get  work ;  sometimes  she 
obtained  a  little  sewing,  sometimes  a  little  washing,  but 
often  she  could  get  no  employment  at  all.  They  had  no 

friend  but  Mr.  G n,  who  had  known  them  "  in  the  old 

country."  He  had  been  very  kind,  but  he  had  a  family 
of  his  own.  Had  he  not  helped  them,  they  must  have 
starved.  I  inquired  for  Mr.  Grey's  wife.  She  was  out, 
and  his  little  daughter  Margaret  was  also  absent.  He 
hoped  they  would  "  bring  back  something  to  make  the 
fire  burn  —  this  winter  weather  was  so  hard  upon  the 
little  boys."  I  looked  upon  the  baby  faces  turned  won- 
deringly  to  mine  —  they  were  blue  with  cold. 

I  could  not  ask  whether  his  wife  was  gathering  chips 
for  the  fire,  or  whether  she  was  endeavoring  to  obtain 
money  to  purchase  fuel ;  there  was  something  about  the 
bearing  of  the  man  that  would  have  made  any  one 
guarded  in  running  the  risk  of  wounding  his  feelings. 
I  told  him  that,  if  I  liked  his  little  girl,  I  might  take  her 
to  live  with  me ;  then  gave  him  my  address,  and  ex 
pressed  a  desire  that  his  wife  would  call  the  next  day 
with  the  child. 

I  returned  home  just  in  time  to  prevent  alarm  at  my 
long  absence.  Had  the  result  of  the  expedition  been 
different,  I  should  have  regarded  it  as  Quixotic  —  Dor- 
casina-ish  in  the  extreme.  Jf* 

The  next  morning  brougffi  Mrs.  Grey  and  her  little 
daughter.  The  former  did  not  impress  me  so  favorably 
as  her  husband,  but  the  sweet  face  of  the  child,  with  its 
large,  blue,  frightened  eyes,  won  spontaneous  interest 
She  was  nine  years  old,  but  small  for  her  age,  and  thin 
almost  to  emaciation.  Her  fair  hair  fell  in  disordered 
masses  to  her  waist.  Her  features  were  pinched  and 


MARGARET.  197 

sharp,  and  she  had  that  look  of  quiet  suffering  which  it 
is  so  painful  to  behold  in  the  countenance  of  childhood. 

The  mother  joyfully  consented  to  leave  little  Marga 
ret  with  me.  It  was  arranged  that  the  family  should 
remove  from  Harlem  to  New  York  to  more  comfortable 
apartments.  The  influence  of  my  friends  could  readily 
procure  for  her  work  or  needful  assistance. 

The  mother  departed,  and  the  little  girl,  with  her 
piteous  expression  of  face,  stood  trembling  at  my  knee. 
She  seemed  almost  heart-broken  when  her  mother  kissed 
her  for  good  by,  but  she  dared  not  cry  —  ill  usage  had 
so  thoroughly  crushed  her  spirit  that  it  seemed  to  have 
deprived  her  of  the  childish  relief  of  tears.  Of  that 
brutal  usage  we  had  ample  proof  when  her  tattered  gar 
ments  were  removed.  Her  fragile  person  was  literally 
covered  with  blue  and  yellow  bruises  —  the  consequence 
of  severe  blows.  These  had  not  been  received  from 
her  parents,  —  so  she  told  me,  —  but  from  one  to  whom 
poverty  had  forced  them  to  intrust  her.  Though  it  was 
December,  her  garments  were  but  three  in  number,  and 
of  summer-suited  materials. 

Busy  fingers  plied  their  needles  that  day  —  some  of 
them  more  used  to  the  pen  than  the  needle,  but  retain 
ing  a  feminine  affection  for  the  latter.  A  little  girl  sat 
by  the  fire  that  evening,  bending  towards  the  genial 
heat  as  though  she  werej^aking  a  new  acquaintance. 
In  her  neat  blue  dress  andwhite  bib,  with  her  fair  hair 
smoothed  and  cut,  it  was  only  in  the  painful  expression 
of  her  face  that  the  little  Margaret  of  the  morning  could 
be  recognized.  Her  countenance  still  wore  a  look  of 
strange  apprehension.  It  was  months  before  it  lost  that 
mournful  expression  —  many  months  before  I  ever  saw 
her  smile.  The  first  time  I  heard  her  sing,  I  had  noise- 


198      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

lessly  entered  the  room  where  she  was  at  work.  Her 
voice  gushed  out  rich  and  clear  as  the  song  of  a  bird. 
She  gave  a  start  of  terror  when  she  saw  me,  and,  on  my 
bidding  her  sing  on,  burst  into  tears.  The  child  of  nine 
years  old  was  already  a  sceptic  to  the  existence  of 
kindness. 

But  I  must  shorten  my  narrative  of  the  Greys. 
Little  Margaret  remained  with  us,  beloved  and  learning 
to  love.  Her  parents  and  infant  brothers  removed  to 
New  York.  Medical  aid  failed  to  restore  the  father's 
sight.  The  mother  worked  incessantly  to  support  her 
little  family,  but  had  a  bitter  struggle  with  poverty. 
In  less  than  a  year  from  the  day  when  I  wandered 
through  the  empty  house  at  Harlem,  and  was  guided 
by  a  dog  to  the  back  building  where  the  blind  man  sat, 
all  that  was  mortal  of  him  was  lying  in  a  coffin.  In 
four  weeks  more  another  coffin  entered  the  room  from 
which  his  mortal  remains  had  been  removed,  and  Mar 
garet  and  her  brothers  were  weeping  over  the  corpse  of 
their  mother. 

They  had  two  elder  sisters,  but  neither  in  circum 
stances  to  provide  for  the  little  orphans.  The  elder 
boy,  John,  a  gentle,  delicate  little  fellow  of  about  six 
years  old,  was  evidently  ill.  His  disease  was  the  same 
that  his  mother's  had  been  —  inflammation  of  the  lungs. 
That  he  should  be  instantjJLcared  for  was  imperative; 
and  we  took  him  home  to  mrrse.  One  of  the  neighbors 
to  the  Greys  took  charge  of  little  Willie.  The  elder 
boy  was  ill  for  nearly  two  months,  but  so  patient  and 
docile  that  he  gave  but  little  trouble.  He  sometimes 
had  to  be  left  alone  for  hours ;  but  we  always  found 
him  either  singing  merrily,  or  with  his  toys  and  picture 
books  laid  on  the  bed  beside  him,  and  always  happy. 


TVTLLIE.  199 

When  the  pale,  feeble  little  fellow  began  to  wander 
about  the  house,  he  was  in  nobody's  way,  but  even  tried 
to  make  himself  useful,  and  share  his  sister's  light 
duties. 

I  used  to  send  Margaret  on  a  weekly  visit  of  inquiry 
after  the  youngest  child.  One  day  she  returned,  sob 
bing  so  loudly  that  I  heard  her  before  she  entered  the 
room  where  I  was  sitting.  "  My  little  brother !  little 
Willie!  poor  little  Willie!"  was  all  that  she  could 
say. 

At  first  I  thought  the  child  was  dead,  and  reproached 
myself  for  having  bestowed  so  little  care  upon  him. 
As  soon  as  Margaret  could  speak,  she  told  me  that  he 
had  been  ill  with  the  measles,  and  was  just  recovering ; 
but  the  people  where  he  was  staying  said  they  could  be 
burdened  with  him  no  longer.  They  had  arranged  to 
send  him  that  very  day  to  the  Orphan  Asylum. 

The  weeping  child  ended  her  tale  with  "  Don't  let 
him  go !  let  me  bring  him  here !  Only  let  me  bring 
him  here  for  a  little  while ! " 

Her  grief  was  so  persuasive  that  I  could  not  resist 
her  entreaties.  An  hour  after,  she  came  into  the  room 
again,  staggering  under  the  weight  of  the  little  boy  in 
her  arms  —  but  this  tune  her  face  was  covered  with 
smiles. 

Willie  was  about  two  xears  old,  an  apple  dumpling- 
shaped,  rosy-cheeked  littre  boy,  who  could  just  toddle 
about  and  prattle  in  an  unintelligible  language.  I  had 
no  intention  of  keeping  him  —  no  fixed  intention  to 
wards  the  children  at  all.  They  were  quiet,  manage 
able,  and  winning.  Mr.  Mowatt  took  a  ready  interest 
in  them.  They  grew  into  his  affections  as  rapidly  as 
into  mine.  They  were  my  pupils ;  and  if  they  added 


200      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

much  to  my  cares,  they  contributed  as  largely  to  my 
joys.  Little  by  little  they  became  an  acknowledged 
part  of  our  small  household.  At  first  we  anticipated 
finding  some  person  or  persons  who  would  like  to  adopt 
the  two  boys.  No  such  party  sprang  up,  and  the  idea 
was  tacitly  abandoned  —  or  rather,  it  was  gradually 
forgotten. 

When  new  reverses  caused  me  to  enter  a  profession, 
the  children  found  protection  for  a  short  period  in  the 
homes  of  my  sisters.  Mr.  Mowatt  went  through  the 
necessary  forms,  and  became  their  legal  guardian.  Be 
fore  we  sailed  for  Europe,  a  highly  respectable  family 
in  Connecticut,  the  state  of  steady  habits,  received  the 
two  boys  as  boarders,  and  treated  them  as  tenderly  as 
though  they  had  been  their  own  children.  The  lads 
attended  day  school  regularly,  and  prospered  in  all 
ways.  They  have  remained  at  Greenfield  Hill  until 
this  period,  and  are  now  a  couple  of  fine,  frank, 
truehearted  boys,  who  have  repaid  by  their  gratitude 
and  good  conduct  all  the  care  and  love  that  have  been 
bestowed  upon  them. 

Three  miles  distant  from  the  residence  of  the  boys, 
little  Margaret  was  placed  at  school  with  a  family 
equally  excellent,  equally  kind,  with  that  to  which  we 
intrusted  her  brothers.  When  I  returned  from  Eng 
land,  four  years  afterwards,  —  returned  alone,  —  I  could 
scarcely  believe  that  the  tall,  graceful  girl  who  threw 
herself  into  my  arms,  weeping  with  joy,  was  the  tiny 
Margaret  I  had  left.  I  could  not  help  seeing,  in  thought, 
the  bruised,  emaciated  child,  who,  shivering  with  cold 
and  fear,  stood  before  me  on  that  memorable  December 
morning.  I  felt  that  she  was  Heaven-intrusted  to  my 
care.  If  her  maturer  womanhood  fulfil  the  promise 
of  her  girlhood,  I  have  nothing  more  to  ask. 


UNEXPECTED    INTELLIGENCE.  201 

I  must  not  close  the  history  of  these  children  without 
relating  a  rather  singular  circumstance  in  connection 
with  them.  Until  quite  recently,  I  knew  nothing  of 
their  parentage  but  what  I  have  related  above.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  A — — e,  visiting  Greenfield,  where  the  boys 
are  living,  noticed  the  children,  and  inquired  who  they 
were.  To  his  surprise,  he  found  that  their  parents  had  ' 
belonged  to  the  parish  in  Harlem  of  which  he  was 
pastor.  He  had  baptized  little  Willie.  He  had  been 

informed  by  the  Mr.  G n,  after  whom  I  had  made 

such  a  singular  search,  that  they  were  of  good  family, 
had  wealthy  bachelor  uncles,  with  other  particulars  that 
may  at  some  future  day  be  advantageous  to  the  children, 
but  which  I  have  taken  no  pains  as  yet  to  authenticate. 


CHAPTER  XL 


Fashion.  —  Original  of  Adam  Trucman.  —  Fashion  accepted  ly  the 
Parli  Theatre.  —  Interview  with  Mr.  Barry.  —  Witnessing  a  first 
Rehearsal  unseen.  —  First  Night  of  Fashion.  —  Success.  —  Second 
Rehearsal. — Author's  Benefit. — Fashion  produced  at  Philadel 
phia. —  Invitations  from  Managers  of  Walnut  Street  Theatre. — 
Their  Liberality  and  Courtesy.  —  Witnessing  Performance  in 
Philadelphia.  —  Demand  for  the  Author.  —  Failure  of  Mr. 
Mowatt.  —  Proposition  that  I  should  adopt  the  Stage.  —  A 
Change  of  Views.  —  Reflections.  —  Mary  Howitt  on  the  Members 
of  the  Profession.  —  A  Determination.  —  My  Father's  Consent. 
—  Contract  with  Mr.  C .  —  Useless  Remonstrances. 


"  WHY  do  you  not  write  a  play  ?  "  said  E.  S to 

me  one  morning.  "  You  have  more  decided  talent  for  the 
stage  than  for  any  thing  else.  If  we  can  get  it  ac 
cepted  by  the  Park  Theatre,  and  if  it  should  succeed, 
you  have  a  new  and  wide  field  of  exertion  opened  to 
you  —  one  in  which  success  is  very  rare,  but  for  which 
your  turn  of  mind  has  particularly  fitted  you." 

"  What  shall  I  attempt,  comedy  or  tragedy  ?  " 

"  Comedy,  decidedly ;  because  you  can  only  write 
what  you  feel,  and  you  are  '  nothing  if  not  critical '  — 
besides,  you  will  have  a  fresh  channel  for  the  sarcastic 
ebullitions  with  which,  you  so  constantly  indulge  us." 

It  was  true  that  at  that  period  of  my  life  a  vein  of 
sarcasm,  developed  by  the  trials  through  which  I  had 
passed,  pervaded  all  my  thoughts,  and  betrayed  itself 
in  much  that  I  wrote  as  well  as  in  conversation.  E. 
S 's  suggestion  appeared  to  me  good,  and  I  com- 

(202) 


FASHION.  203 

menced  Fashion.  If  it  is  a  satire  on  American  parve- 
nuism,  it  was  intended  to  be  a  good-humored  one.  No 
charge  can  be  more  untrue  than  that  with  which  I  have 
been  taxed  through  the  press  and  in  private  —  the 
accusation  of  having  held  up  to  ridicule  well-known 
personages.  The  character  of  Mrs.  Tiffany  was  not 
drawn  from  any  one  individual,  but  was  intended  as  the 
type  of  a  certain  class.  The  only  character  in  the  play 
which  was  sketched  from  life  was  that  of  the  blunt, 
warmhearted  old  farmer.  I  was  told  that  the  original 
was  seen  in  the  pit  vociferously  applauding  Adam  True- 
man's  strictures  on  fashionable  society.  It  was  not  very 
wonderful  that  his  sentiments  found  an  echo  in  my 
friend's  bosom.  I  longed  to  ask  the  latter  whether  he 
recognized  his  own  portrait;  but  we  have  never  met 
since  the  likeness  was  taken. 

There  were  no  attempts  in  Fashion  at  fine  writing. 
I  designed  the  play  wholly  as  an  acting  comedy.  A 
dramatic,  not  a  literary,  success  was  what  I  desired  to 
achieve.  Caution  suggested  my  not  aiming  at  both  at 
once. 

Fashion  was  offered  to  the  Park  Theatre.  In  the 
usual  course  of  events,  its  fate  would  have  been  to  gather 
dust  amongst  an  ever-increasing  pile  of  manuscripts 
on  Mr.  Simpson's  table  —  heaps  of  rejected  plays, 
heaps  of  plays,  the  merits  of  which  were  never  even  in 
vestigated.  It  generally  takes  several  months  to  induce 
a  manager  to  read  a  new  play  —  several  mouths  more 
before  he  consents  to  its  production.  Making  an  ex 
ception  to  prove  this  rule,  Mr.  Simpson  read  Fashion 
at  once.  He  liked  it,  and  handed  the  manuscript  to  his 
stage  manager,  Mr.  Barry ,who  also  approved  it,  and  pro 
nounced  that  the  play  would  make  a  hit. 


204       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

A  few  days  more,  and  I  received  official  information 
that  Fashion  was  accepted  by  the  Park  Theatre  —  that 
it  would  be  produced  without  delay,  and  in  a  style  of  great 
V"  magnificence  —  also,  that  I  would  receive  an  author's 
benefit  on  the  third  night,  and  a  certain  per  centage  of 
the  nightly  receipts  of  the  theatre  for  every  performance 
of  the  play  after  it  had  run  a  stipulated  number  of 
nights. 

On  listening  to  this  intelligence,  I  very  quietly  asked 
myself  whether  I  was  awake.  It  took  some  time,  and 
needed  some  practical  experiments  upon  my  own  sensi 
bilities,  before  I  could  feel  assured  that  I  was  not  enjoy 
ing  a  pleasant  dream.  I  was  almost  too  much  surprised 
to  be  elated. 

It  was'  necessary  that  I  should  call  on  Mr.  Barry,  to 
hear  his  suggestions  concerning  the  casting  of  the  play 
and  certain  slight  alterations.  I  did  so,  and  listened 
with  seeming  attention  to  his  laying  down  of  dramatic 
law  ;  but  I  was  in  a  state  of  agreeable  bewilderment 
through  the  whole  interview.  When  I  rose  to  leave, 
and  received  his  very  patronizing  congratulations  on 
having  written  a  "  remarkable  play,"  I  could  not  help 
fancying  that  he  was  saying  to  himself,  "  What  a  silly 
little  soul  it  is  ! "  Indeed,  I  half  expected  that  he  was 
going  to  pat  me  on  the  head  and  commend  me  for  my 
"  smartness."  The  impression  I  left  upon  his  mind  was 
certainly  not  that  I  was  a  very  formidable  or  a  very 
brilliant  character. 

The  play  was  at  once  announced  and  put  in  rehearsal. 
The  day  before  its  representation  I  became  anxious  to 
witness  one  of  these  rehearsals,  that  I  might  form  some 
idea  of  the  chances  of  success.  It  is  an  author's  priv 
ilege  to  attend  the  rehearsals  of  his  own  production,  his 


WITNESSING   A   REHEARSAL.  205 

acknowledged  seat  being  at  the  manager's  table,  upon 
the  stage.  He  is  also  at  liberty  to  make  suggestions  to 
the  actors  explanatory  of  his  ideas  —  though,  as  a  gen 
eral  rule,  he  finds  they  understand  what  he  intended 
much  better  than  he  does  himself ;  at  least,  they  po 
litely  assure  him  that  such  is  the  case.  Of  these  cus 
toms,  I  was  too  uncertain  of  success  to  avail  myself.  I 
preferred  to  overlook  the  mysterious  doings  from  a  pri 
vate  box,  unseen  by  the  actors. 

Rehearsal  was  just  commencing,  when  Mr.  Mowatt 
and  myself  were  introduced  by  Mr.  Blake  (for  many 
years  boxkeeper  of  the  Park  Theatre)  into  the  theatre. 
The  whole  front  of  the  building  was  so  dark  that  we 
had  to  feel  our  way,  stumbling  over  benches  and  chairs, 
until  we  succeeded  in  gaining  our  seats. 

The  stage  was  lighted  by  a  single  branch  of  gas, 
shooting  up  to  the  height  of  several  feet  in  the  centre 
of  the  footlights.  It  sent  forth  a  dim,  blue,  spectral 
light,  that  gave  a  phantom-like  appearance  to  surround 
ing  objects.  On  the  right  of  the  stage  was  the  prompt 
er's  table  —  on  the  left,  the  manager's  table.  Beneath 
the  ghastly  light  sat  a  palefaced  prompter,  with  the 
manuscript  of  Fashion  in  his  hand.  At  his  side  stood  the 
'•  call  boy,"  a  child  of  about  ten  years  of  age.  He  held 
a  long  strip  of  paper,  somewhat  resembling  the  tailors' 
bills  of  young  spendthrifts,  as  they  are  represented  on 
the  stage.  This  was  the  "  call "  for  the  actors,  and 
directed  him  which  to  summon  from  the  greenroom. 

The  rehearsal  of  Fashion  had  begun.  It  was  sin 
gular  to  see  these  kings  and  queens  of  the  stage, 
whom  I  had  been  accustomed  to  behold  decked  in  gold- 
embroidered  robes  and  jewelled  crowns,  glittering  in 
the  full  blaze  of  the  footlights  —  now  moving  about  in 


206      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

this  "  visible  darkness/'  some  of  the  men  in  "  shocking 
bad  hats  "  and  rough  overcoats,  and  the  ladies  in  modern 
bonnets  in  place  of  tiaras  or  wreaths  of  flowers,  and 
mantles  and  warm  cloaks  instead  of  peasant  petticoats 
or  brocade  trains.  I  found  it  difficult  to  recognize  the 
romantic  heroes  and  injured  heroines  in  whose  suffer 
ings  I  had  so  often  sympathized. 

Every  actor  held  his  part,  to  which  he  constantly 
referred.  It  gave  me  an  odd  sensation  to  hear  my  own 
language  uttered  in  all  varieties  of  tones,  and  often  con 
veying  a  meaning  of  which  I  did  not  suppose  it  to  be 
susceptible.  But  I  soon  discovered  that  a  rehearsal  was 
a  very  serious  affair.  There  was  no  laughing,  except 
now  and  then  at  the  situations  of  the  play,  —  at  which, 
by  the  by,  I  was  particularly  flattered, — no  talking, 
except  in  reference  to  the  business  of  the  scene,  and 
now  and  then  a  remark  from  some  critical  malcontent, 
which  was  never  intended  for  the  author's  ears.  There 
are  two  dances  in  the  fourth  act  of  Fashion,  and  these  t 
were  gone  through  with  a  business-like  gravity  that  was 
alarming.  While  witnessing  this  solemn  rehearsal,  I 
began  to  fancy  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and  unconsciously 
written  a  tragedy.  Rehearsal  lasted  several  hours. 
At  its  close,  when  we  stumbled  through  the  dark  pas 
sage  into  the  box  office,  and  stood  once  more  in  the 
light  of  day,  it  seemed  to  me  again  as  though  I  had 
been  dreaming.  But  the  dream  was  a  very  sober  one, 
and  while  it  lasted  I  received  a  lesson  upon  the  "  vanity 
of  human  wishes."  Of  the  probable  success  of  the  play 
I  could  not  form  the  faintest  idea. 

The  next  night  Fashion  was  produced.  With  an 
anxious  heart  I  took  my  seat  in  the  same  private  box 
from  which  I  had  overlooked  the  gloomy  rehearsal  on 


PROLOGUE    TO   FASHION.  207 

the  day  previous.  What  a  different  aspect  every  thing 
wore  !  The  theatre  flooded  with  light,  the  gay  decora 
tions,  the  finely-painted  drop  curtain,  the  boxes  filled 
with  beautiful  women,  the  dense  crowd  in  the  pit  and 
galleries,  the  inspiring  music,  —  all  seemed  the  effect  of 
some  Scottish  glamour  rather  than  a  reality. 

The  music  ceased.  The  gentleman  who  was  to  per 
sonate  the  Count  in  the  comedy  appeared  before  the 
curtain  and  delivered  a  prologue,  written  by  Epes  Sar 
gent.  It  was  a  capital  prologue  —  one  calculated  to  put 
an  audience  in  good  humor ;  and  thus  it  took  the  first 
gigantic  step  towards  insuring  the  success  of  the  play. 
I  subjoin  it,  though  much  of  its  effect  necessarily  De 
pends  on  an  appropriate  delivery  and  stage  action :  — 

PROLOGUE. 

(Enter  a  Qentieman,  reading  a  Jfersspaper.) 

11 '  Fashion,  a  Comedy.'     I'll  go  ;  but  stay  — 
Now  I  read  farther,  'tis  a  native  play ! 
Bah !  homemade  calicoes  are  well  enough, 
But  homemade  dramas  must  be  stupid  stuff. 
Had  it  the  London  stamp,  'twould  do  —  but  then, 
For  plays,  we  lack  the  manners  and  the  men  !  " 

Thus  speaks  one  critic.     Hear  another's  creed  :  — 
" '  Fashion ! '    What's  here  ?    ( Reads  J    It  never  can  succeed  ! 
What !  from  a  woman's  pen  ?     It  takes  a  man 
To  write  a  comedy  —  no  woman  can." 

Well,  sir,  and  what  say  you,  and  why  that  frown  ? 
His  eyes  uprolled,  he  lays  the  paper  down  :  — 
"  Here  !  take,"  he  says,  "  the  unclean  thing  away  ! 
'Tis  tainted  with  the  notice  of  a  play ! " 

But,  sir  ! — but,  gentlemen !  — you,  sir,  who  think 
No  comedy  can  flow  from  native  ink,  — 
Are  we  such  perfect  monsters,  or  such  ditU, 
That  Wit  no  traits  for  ridicule  can  cull  ? 
Have  we  no  follies  here  to  be  redressed  ? 
No  vices  gibbeted  ?  no  crimes  confessed  ? 


208       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

"  But  then  a  female  hand  can't  lay  the  lash  on !  " 
How  know  you  that,  sir,  when  the  theme  is  FASHION  ? 

And  now,  come  forth,  thou  man  of  sanctity  ! 
How  shall  I  venture  a  reply  to  thee  ? 
The  Stage  —  what  is  it,  though  beneath  thy  ban, 
But  a  daguerreotype  of  life  and  man  ? 
Arraign  poor  human  nature,  if  you  will, 
But  let  the  DKAMA  have  her  mission  still ; 
Let  her,  with  honest  purpose,  still  reflect 
The  faults  which  keeneyed  Satire  may  detect. 
For  there  be  men  who  fear  not  an  hereafter, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  hell  of  public  laughter  ! 

Friends,  from  these  scoffers  we  appeal  to  you  ! 
Condemn  the  false,  but  0,  applaud  the  true. 
Grant  that  some  wit  may  grow  on  native  soil, 
And  Art's  fair  fabric  rise  from  woman's  toil. 
While  we  exhibit  but  to  reprehend 
The  social  vices,  'tis  for  you  to  mend  ! 

The  audience  applauded,  as  was  expected  of  them, 
the  prologue  ended,  and  the  curtain  rose. 

The  cast  of  the  play  was  exceedingly  strong  —  so 
admirable  that  when,  upon  the  falling  of  the  curtain 
after  the  fifth  act,  an  unequivocally  brilliant  success  had 
been  achieved,  I  was  forced  to  admit  that  my  laurels 
were  not  of  my  own  earning.  It  would  have  been  diffi 
cult  for  a  play  to  fail  with  such  acting  as  Chippendale's, 
•M  Ms  striking  delineation  of  Adam  Trueman,  Mrs. 
Knight's,  in  her  irresistibly  comic  personation  of  Pru 
dence,  Fisher's  as  Snobson,  Crisp's  as  the  Count,  Mr. 
Barry's  as  Mr.  Tiffany,  Dyott's  as  Colonel  Howard,  De 
Walden's  as  Mr.  Twinkle,  J.  Howard's  as  Fogg,  Sker- 
rett's  as  Zeke,  Miss  Ellis's  as  Gertrude,  Mrs.  Barry's 
as  Mrs.  Tiffany,  Miss  Horn's  as  Seraphina,  Mrs.  Dyott's 
as  Millinette. 

The  play  was  announced  for  repetition  every  night, 
and  the.  audience  loudly  testified  their  approbation. 


.  J 


SECOND    REHEARSAL.  209 

The  day  after  the  performance  of  a  new  drama,  it  is 
customary  to  call  a  rehearsal,  for  the  sake  of  "  cutting  " 
the  play,  if  too  long,  (and  almost  all  plays  are  too  long 
as  originally  written.)  and  to  make  other  necessary 
alterations.  To  this  rehearsal  I  was  formally  invited 
by  the  managers.  Accompanied  by  Mr.  Mowatt,  I 
gladly  attended.  On  that  day,  for  the  first  time,  I  crossed 
the  stage  of  a  theatre.  I  was  conducted  to  a  seat  at 
the  manager's  table. 

The  theatre  had  undergone  its  transformation  again. 
All  was  darkness  and  silence.  The  solitary  gas-branch 
burned  as  blue  and  ghastly  as  .ever,  and  the  actors,  in 
their  every-day  dresses,  moved  mysteriously  about  in 
its  shadowy  light.  But  on  nearer  view  they  looked 
like  weary  and  care-laden  human  beings,  instead  of 
phantoms. 

Again  the  rehearsal  of  Fashion  commenced.  Mr. 
Barry  arranged  the  "  cuts,"  requesting  my  approval  in 
a  manner  which  left  me  very  little  alternative.  The 
principal  actors  were  presented  to  me,  and  I  made  as 
many  delicate  hints  concerning  certain  misinterpretations 
of  the  text  as  I  dared  venture  upon.  It  was  very  evi 
dent  that  they  singly  and  collectively  entertained  the 
opinion  that  an  author  never  knew  the  true  meaning  of 
his  own  words.  His  suppositions  to  the  contrary  were 
mere  hallucinations. 

Fashion  was  repeated  again  that  night.  The  next 
was  the  one  appointed  for  my  benefit.  On  the  occasion, 
the  house  was  literally  crammed  from  pit  to  dome. 
Owing  to  the  judicious  cutting,  the  performance  was 
more  rapid  than  on  the  first  night,  and  went  off  with 
even  greater  spirit.  At  the  falling  of  the  curtain,  there 
was  a  call  for  the  author.  This  I  had  anticipated,  and 
14 


210      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

instead  of  bowing  from  a  private  box,  according  to  the 
established  usage,  I  sent  Mr.  Barry  a  few  lines  expres 
sive  of  my  thanks,  and  desired  him  to  deliver  them  be 
fore  the  curtain.  "Mr.  Barry  then  came  forward," 
(said  one  of  the  newspapers,  the  next  morning,)  "  and 
spoke  as  follows  : "  — 

"  LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN  :  I  am  commissioned  by  Mrs.  Mowatt 
to  offer  to  you  her  sincere  and  most  grateful  acknowledgments  for 
the  favor  with  which  you  have  received  this  comedy.  She  desires 
me  to  express  the  hope  that  you  will  take  it  rather  as  an  earnest  of 
what  she  may  hereafter  do  than  as  a  fair  specimen  of  what  Ameri 
can  dramatic  literature  ought  to  be.  {Loud  applause.}  With  your 
permission,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  will  announce  the  comedy  of 
Fashion  every  night  until  further  notice."  (Loud  and  continued 
applause.) 

The  audience  were  satisfied,  and  I  was  spared  the 
necessity  of  making  probably  an  awkward  acknowledg 
ment  in  person. 

On  the  night  of  this  benefit  I  sent  to  each  of  the 
ladies  engaged  in  the  play  a  trifling  remembrance  of 
the  occasion.  A  note,  acknowledging  my  indebtedness 
to  the  whole  company  for  their  admirable  personations, 
was  addressed  to  Mr.  Barry.  This  was  framed  and 
hung  by  him  in  the  greenroom. 

Fashion  was  played  nightly  to  full  houses  for  three 
weeks,  and  only  withdrawn  to  make  room  for  "  stars " 
who  were  engaged  before  its  production. 

During  the  run  of  the  play  in  New  York,  it  was  pro 
duced  in  Philadelphia,  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre, 
under  the  management  of  E.  A.  Marshall,  Esq.,  the 
stage  manager  being  W.  Rufus  Blake,  Esq.  Its  suc 
cess  was  as  brilliant  as  in  New  York.  The  managers 
sent  a  pressing  invitation  to  Mr.  Mo  watt  and  myself  to 
visit  Philadelphia  and  witness  the  representation.  We 


FASHION   IN   PHILADELPHIA.  211 

accepted,  and  were  entertained  by  them  for  three  da^s, 
at  one  of  the  first  hotels,  in  the  most  courteous  manner. 
Our  suite  of  apartments  were  the  best  that  could  be 
procured  —  our  table  was  sumptuously  provided,  and  a 
carriage  stood  always  at  the  door,  at  our  disposal.  The 
conduct  of  these  gentlemen  deserves  particular  mention, 
for  there  are  few  managers  who  would  feel  called  upon 
to  testify  their  indebtedness  to  an  author  in  a  style  so 
generous  and  complimentary.  A  play  may  enrich  a 
theatre,  yet,  as  a  general  rule,  the  manager  ignores  the 
existence  of  the  author,  except  so  far  as  his  contract  is 
concerned. 

The  representation  of  Fashion,  in  Philadelphia,  af 
forded  us  unqualified  pleasure.  It  was  difficult,  or 
rather  impossible,  to  decide  whether  the  play  was  pro 
duced  with  greater  eclat  and  more  magnificent  stage 
appointments  at  the  Walnut  or  at  the  Park  Theatre. 
The  cast,  too,  was  equally  strong  at  both  theatres. 
W.  Kufus  Blake,  one  of  the  ruost  gifted  of  the  pathetic 
and  comic  "  old  men  "  of  the  stage,  enacted  Adam  True- 
man.  Mrs.  Thayer  was  drollness  personified  in  Pru 
dence.  Wheatly  as  the  Count,  Fredericks  as  Mr.  Tif 
fany,  Chapman  as  Snobson,  Young  as  Zeke,  Mrs.  Jones 
as  Mrs.  Tiffany,  Miss  Alexina  Fisher  as  Gertrude,  Miss 
Susan  Cushman  as  Seraphina,  and  Mrs.  Blake  as  Mil- 
linette,  could  not  be  surpassed  even  by  their  contem 
poraries  of  the  Park. 

We  were  accompanied  to  the  theatre  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Mason  —  the  charming  Emma  Wheatly  of  Park 
Theatre  memory.  Our  box  was  furnished  with  white 
satin  bills,  printed  in  letters  of  gold.  At  the  close  of 
the  play  the  actors  were  all  called  before  the  curtain. 
Then  rose  shouts  for  the  author.  The  audience  had 


212       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTKESS. 

become  aware  that  she  was  in  the  theatre.  If  I  had 
reflected  on  the  subject,  I  should  have  expected  this 
summons ;  as  it  was,  I  chanced  to  be  wholly  unpre 
pared,  and  the  unlooked-for  demonstration  affected  me 
unpleasantly.  Our  party  were  seated  in  the  first  tier, 
and  exposed  to  the  full  gaze  of  the  audience,  who  now 
turned  themselves  en  masse  towards  us.  The  shouts 
continued,  and  Mr.  Mowatt  and  Mr.  Mason  entreated 
me  to  rise  and  courtesy.  I  could  not  muster  courage, 
and  felt  much  more  inclined  to  make  a  cowardly  escape. 
The  audience  grew  more  vociferous  at  the  delay. 

"  There  is  no  use  of  refusing ;  you  will  be  obliged  to 
rise,"  whispered  Mrs.  Mason. 

I  saw  she  was  right,  and  answered,  "  I  will,  if  you 
rise  also  and  courtesy  with  me." 

She  objected  at  first,  but  finding  that  I  would  not 
move,  and  that  the  shouts  were  only  redoubled,  she 
amiably  consented.  "We  rose  together,  and  were  greeted 
with  prolonged  cheering.,  I  courtesied  several  times, 
but  was  not  sufficiently  self-possessed  to  notice  whether 
she  did  the  same.  This  ceremony  over,  we  took  our 
departure  as  rapidly  as  possible.  I  little  thought  that, 
in  less  than  two  months,  I  should  courtesy  to  an  audi 
ence  from  the  stage  of  that  very  theatre. 

At  the  door  of  the  theatre  we  were  met  by  the  mana 
gers,  who  requested  that  I  would  allow  them  to  conduct 
me  behind  the  scenes,  and  present  the  members  of  the 
company.  This  was  another  unexpected  trial  of  my 
nerves,  for  I  had  not  overcome  a  certain  feeling  of  awe 
towards  stage  heroes  and  heroines,  but  I  could  not  with 
any  degree  of  graciousness  refuse.  We  passed  through 
a  private  entrance  leading  from  the  boxes.  The  green 
curtain  was  down  —  the  stage  represented  a  drawing 


BEHIND    THE   SCENES.  213 

room  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Tiffany  —  the  actors  were 
ranged  in  a  semicircle,  awaiting  us.  They  were  pre 
sented  in  turn,  and  I  exchanged,  or  tried  to  exchange, 
a  few  words  with  each  of  the  ladies ;  but  I  fancy  that 
my  remarks  were  not  particularly  sensible,  or  much  to 
the  purpose.  The  impromptu  introduction,  and  the 
novelty  of  my  situation,  had  confused  my  ideas,  and  it 
is  very  probable  that  I  commented  on  the  excessive 
heat  when  every  one  stood  shivering  around  me. 

The  next  day,  however,  I  hope  the  remembrance  of 
my  awkwardness  and  embarrassment  was  effaced  from 
the  minds  of  the  ladies  in  question,  for  I  sent  them 
each  a  gold  pencil  in  token  of  my  appreciation  of  their 
efforts. 

"  Do  you  not  feel  proud  ?  "  inquired  a  friend  of  me. 

I  answered  with  perfect  sincerity,  "  Perhaps  I  should, 
if  the  acting  of  Fashion  had  not  been  so  very  excellent 
that  the  author  has  only  a  secondary  share  of  the  gen 
eral  success." 

The  secret  of  that   success  was,  that   Fashion   is,  \/ 
strictly  speaking,  an  "  acting  play,"  and,  placed  in  the 
hands  of  an  accomplished  company,  the  characters  were 
re-created.     An  amount  of  interest  was  thus  kept  alive 
which  so  simple  a  plot  could  not  legit  imately  awaken. 

Edgar  A.  Poe,  one  of  my  sternest  critics,  wrote  of  . 
Fasliion^fKat  it  resembled  the  School  for  Scandal  in 
the  same  degree  that  the  shell  of  a  locust  resembles  the 
living  locust.  If  his  severity  was  but  justice,  it  must 
be  that  the  spirits  of  the  performers  infused  themselves 
into  the  empty  shell,  and  produced  a  very  effective  coun 
terfeit  of  life. 

After  three  most  delightful  days  we  bade  adieu  to 
our  manager  hosts,  and  returned  to  New  York. 


214      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  publishing  business,  in  which  Mr.  Mowatt  was 
engaged,  had  for  some  time  been  unsuccessful.  Just  at 
this  period  he  failed,  and  became  involved  in  greater 
difficulties  than  ever. 

The  success  of  Fashion  had  attracted  the  attention 
of  managers.  Again  I  received  propositions  to  go  upon 
the  stage,  coupled  with  the  assurance  that  I  would  rap 
idly  acquire  an  independence.  The  day  had  come  when 
all  things  seemed  to  work  together  to  force  me  of  ne 
cessity  to  contemplate  this  step. 

My  health  was  still  variable,  and  I  had  not  yet 
wholly  rcovered  from  the  effects  of  long  illness.  I  had 
always  intended  to  resume  public  readings  when  I  grew 
sufficiently  strong.  Nearly  double  the  amount  of  phy 
sique  was  needed  for  a  night's  reading  than  was  re 
quired  for  the  performance  of  a  light  part  in  a  five-act 
drama. 

/  My  views  concerning  the  stage,  and  my  estimate  of 
the  members  of  dramatic  companies,  had  undergone  a 
total  revolution.  Many  circumstances  had  proved  to 
me  how  unfounded  were  the  prejudices  of  the  world 
against  the  profession  as  a  body.  The  communication 
into  which  I  had  been  brought,  by  the  production  of 
Fashion,  with  the  managers  and  members  of  the  Park 
company  and  the  managers  of  the  Walnut  Street  Thea 
tre,  added  to  all  I  heard  of  their  private  histories,  con 
vinced  me  that  I  had  formed  unjust  conclusions.  Rather, 
I  had  adopted  the  conclusions  of  those  who  were  as 
ignorant  on  the  subject  as  myself —  who,  perhaps,  cared 
as  little  as  I  had  done  to  ascertain  the  truth. 

My  after  experiences  taught  me  that  truer  words 
concerning  the  stage  were  never  written  than  those  of 
Mary  Howitt  which  preface  her  memoir  of  me.  Re- 


MARY   HO  WITT    ON   THE    DRAMA.  215 

ferring  to  the  members  of  the  profession  with  whom 
she  has  become  acquainted,  she  says,  — 

"  Our  readers  need  not  be  told  that  we  consider  the 
stage  as  capable  of  becoming  one  of  the  great  means 
of  human  advancement  and  improvement,  and  for  this 
reason  it  is  that  we  especially  rejoice  to  see  amongst  its 
ornaments  men  and  women  not  only  of  surpassing  tal 
ent  and  genius,  but,  which  is  far  higher  and  much  rarer, 
of  high  moral  character  and  even  deep  religious  feel 
ing.  Let  not  the  so  called  religious  world  start  at  this 
assertion ;  we  know  what  we  say,  and  we  fearlessly 
assert  that  there  is  many  a  poor,  despised  player,  whose 
Christian  graces  of  faith,  patience,  charity,  and  self- 
denial  put  to  shame  the  vaunted  virtues  of  the  proud 
pharisee  ;  nor  are  they  always  the  purest  who  talk  most 
about  purity. 

"  Welcome,  then,  and  doubly  welcome,  be  all  such  re 
formers  as  come  amongst  us  not  only  with  the  high 
argument  of  their  own  pure  and  blameless  lives,  but 
who,  Laving  passed  through  suffering  and  trial,  know 
experimentally  how  to  teach,  and  who  teach,  through 
the  persuasive  power  of  genius,  and  the  benign  influ 
ence  of  a  noble  womanly  spirit." 

These  lines  had  not  then  been  written,  but  they  ap 
ply  to  many  a  woman,  whom  I  have  known,  who  bears 
the  too  often  contemptuously  uttered  name  of  "  actress  ; " 
women  who,  with  hearts  full  of  anguish,  nightly  prac 
tise  forgetfulness  of  self,  and  of  their  private  sorrows,  to 
earn  their  bread  by  delighting  a  public  who  misjudges 
them. 

I  pondered  long  and  seriously  upon  the  consequences 
of  my  entering  the  profession.  The  "  qu'en  dira 
fon  ?  "  of  Society  had  no  longer  the  power  to  awe  me. 


216       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

Was  it  right  ?  was  it  wrong  ?  were  questions  of  higher 
moment.  My  respect  for  the  opinions  of  "  Mrs. 
Grundy"  had  slowly  melted  away  since  I  discovered 
thaty  with  that  respectable  representative  of  the  world 
in  general,  success  sanctified  all  things  ;  nothing  was  re 
prehensible  but  failure. 

I  should  never  have  adopted  the  stage  as  a  matter 
of  expediency  alone,  however  great  the  temptation. 
"What  I  did  was  not  done  lightly  and  irresponsibly.  I 
reviewed  my  whole  past  life,  and  saw,  that,  from  earli 
est  childhood,  my  tastes,  studies,  pursuits  had  all  com 
bined  to  fit  me  for  this  end.  I  had  exhibited  a  passion 
for  dramatic  performances  when  I  was  little  more  than 
an  infant.  I  had  played  plays  before  I  ever  entered  a 
theatre.  I  had  written  plays  from  the  time  that  I  first 
witnessed  a  performance.  My  love  for  the  drama  was 
genuine,  for  it  was  developed  at  a  period  when  the 
theatre  was  an  unknown  place,  and  actors  a  species  of 
mythical  creatures.  I  determined  to  fulfil  the  destiny 
which  seemed  visibly  pointed  out  by  the  unerring  finger 
of  Providence  in  all  the  circumstances,  associations,  and 
vicissitudes  of  my  life,  in  my  intellectual  tastes  and 
habits,  and  the  sympathies  of  my  emotional  nature.  I 
would  become  an  actress. 

Mr.  Mowatt's  appreciation  of  the  drama  was,  I  think, 
even  greater  than  my  own.  My  wishes  met  with  a 
ready  response  from  him.  His  only  fear  was,  that  I 
had  not  physical  strength  to  endure  the  excitement  and 
fatigue  of  an  arduous  vocation.  This  had  to  be  tested. 

The  consent  of  one  other  person  was  all  I  required  ; 
it  was  that  of  my  father.  I  had  not  courage  person 
ally  to  communicate  my  intentions.  Mr.  Mo  watt,  in  a 
private  interview  with  him,  explained  the  state  of  his 


MY    FATHER.  -17 

own  affairs,  the  theatrical  propositions  I  had  received, 
and  my  resolves,  should  these  resolutions  meet  with  his 
sanction.  After  they  had  conversed  for  some  time  I 
could  endure  the  suspense  no  longer,  and  entered  the 
room.  My  father  spoke  but  two  words  as  I  silently  put 
my  arms  about  his  neck.  They  were,  "  Brave  girl ! " 
Talismanic  words  were  they  to  me;  and  ever  after, 
when  my  spirits  flagged,  they  sounded  in  my  ears,  and 
cheered  me,  and  stimulated  me,  and  made  me  "  brave." 
His  consent,  though  not  withheld,  was  given  with  some 
reluctance.  But  he  had  greater  fears  for  my  health 
than  for  my  success.  He  assured  me  — and  my  ready 
ears  drank  in  the  words  of  promise  —  that,  if  I  had  suf 
ficient  self-possession  to  act  in  public  as  he  had  seen 
me  perform  in  private,  my  success  was  certain. 

Before  I  had  contemplated  the  possibility  of  becom 
ing  an  actress,  I  had  partly  engaged  to  write  another 
comedy  for  the  Park  Theatre.  The  managers  desired 
that  the  hero  should  be  a  young  instead  of  an  old  man, 
as  in  Fashion.  The  part  was  to  be  adapted  to  the 

abilities  of  their  leading  juvenile  comedian,  Mr.  C . 

This  gentleman's  performance  of  the  Count,  in  Fashion, 

had  won  him  much  well-deserved  applause.  Mr.  C 

was  consulted  concerning  the  character  which  I  pur 
posed  writing  for  him,  and  paid  us  several  visits.  The 
play  was  abandoned,  in  consequence  of  my  determina 
tion  to  enter  the  profession ;  and  this  change  was  at  once 
communicated  to  him. 

I  desired  to  make  my  first  appearance  in  some  of  the 
cities  of  the  Union  where  I  was  not  personally  known, 
and  to  study  and  practise  my  profession  before  I  made 
my  debut  in  New  York.  Mr.  C ,  however,  con 
vinced  us  that  this  course  would  be  unwise.  The  Park 


218      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

/PoD^V 

V  was  the  one  theatre  in  the  Union  that  could  give  the 

stamp  of  legitimacy  —  my  debut  must  be  made  there. 
I  could  afterwards  travel  and  gain  experience  before  I 
accepted  a  second  engagement  in  New  York.  He  also 
represented  to  us  that  I  needed  an  instructor  to  make 
me  acquainted  with  the  traditionary  "  stage  business  " 
of  old-established  plays ;  one  who  could,  at  the  same 
time,  sustain  opposite  characters  to  me,  and  who  would 
relieve  me  from  the  fatigue  of  directing  rehearsals. 
He  assured  us  that  he  had  played  the  whole  range  of 
youthful  heroes  with  Miss  Faucitt  and  other  English 
stars  of  note,  and  had  been  well  drilled  in  the  duties  of 
stage  manager  in  English  and  Scottish  theatres. 

Before  I  even  made  my  debut  he  had  entered  into 
the  following  contract  with  Mr.  Mowatt :  I  was  to 
appear  on  the  closing  night  of  the  season,  at  the  Park 
Theatre,  for  his  benefit.  He  was  to  travel  with  us  and 
play  opposite  parts  to  me  for  one  year,  sharing  equally 
the  proceeds  of  every  engagement.  He  was  to  assist  in 
conducting  the  business  arrangements,  superintend  all 
rehearsals,  and  afford  me  all  the  dramatic  instruction 
in  his  power.  It  was  soon  represented  to  us  by  man 
agers  that  this  arrangement  was  hardly  a  fair  one  ;  but 
Mr.  Mowatt  was  too  honorable  not  to  adhere  to  a  con 
tract  once  made,  however  disadvantageous  it  might 
prove. 

The  instant  my  projected  appearance  was  announced, 
I  had  to  encounter  a  flood  of  remonstrances  from 
relatives  and  friends  —  opposition  in  every  variety  of 
form.  But  tears,  entreaties,  threats,  supplicating  letters 
could  only  occasion  me  much  suffering  —  they  could  not 
shake  my  resolution. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Preparations  for  Debut.  —  First  Rehearsal  with  the  Company.  — 
Stage  Fright.  —  Star  Dressing  Room.  —  Call  Boy's  Amusement.  — 
~A.  Boast  opportunely  recalled.  —  Rising  of  the  Curtain.  —  The 
Debut.  —  Second  Appearance  in  public.—  Walnut  Street  Theatre. 
—  A  distressing  Incident.  —  Indignation  of  an  Audience.  —  Pain 
ful  Discovery.  —  Conclusion  of  Engagement.  —  Fashion  performed 
for  Mr.  Blake's  Benefit.  —  First  Appearance  as  Gertrude. 


THE  day-  of  my  debut  was  fixed.  It  was  in  the 
month  of  June,  1845.  I  had  three  weeks  only  for 
preparation.  Incessant  study,  training,  —  discipline 
of  a  kind  which  the  actor-student  alone  can  ap 
preciate,  —  were  indispensable  to  perfect  success.  I 
took  fencing  lessons,  to  gain  firmness  of  position  and 
freedom  of  limb.  I  used  dumb  bells,  to  overcome  the 
constitutional  weakness  of  my  arms  and  chest.  I  exer 
cised  my  voice  during  four  hours  every  day,  to  increase 
its  power.  I  wore  a  voluminous  train  for  as  many 
hours  daily,  to  learn  the  graceful  management  of 
queenly  or  classic  robes.  I  neglected  no  means  that 
could  fit  me  to  realize  my  beau  ideal  of  Campbell's 

lines  :  — 

"  But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come  ; 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 
And  sculpture  to  be  dumb." 

The  day  before  my  debut,  it  was  necessary  that  I 
should  rehearse  with  the  company.  I  found  this  a 
severer  ordeal  than  performing  before  the  public.  Once 

(215) 


220       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

more  I  stood  upon  the  dimly-lighted,  gloomy  stage, 
not  now  in  the  position  of  an  author,  to  observe,  to 
criticize,  to  suggest,  but  to  be  observed,  to  be  criticized, 
very  possibly  —  nay,  very  probably  —  to  be  ridiculed, 
if  I  betrayed  the  slightest  ignorance  of  what  I  attempted. 
There  is  always  a  half-malicious  curiosity  amongst 
actors  to  witness  the  shortcomings  of  a  novice.  They 
invariably  experience  strong  inclinations  to  prophesy 
failure.  No  wonder ;  for  they  know  best  the  nice  sub 
tleties  of  their  own  art  —  the  unexpected  barriers  that 
start  up  between  the  neophyte  and  his  goal. 

Only  those  actors  who  are  engaged  in  the  scene  re 
hearsed  are  permitted  to  occupy  the  stage.  The  play 
was  the  Lady  of  Lyons.  Mrs.  Vernon,  as  Madame 
Deschapelles,  and  I,  as  Pauline,  took  our  seats  to  open 
the  first  scene.  The  actors  crowded  around  the  wings, 
eager  to  pass  judgment  on  the  trembling  debutante. 
The  stage  manager,  seated  at  his  table,  scanned  her 
with  cold  and  scrutinizing  eyes.  The  pale  prompter 
laid  his  book  upon  his  knee,  that  he  might  stare  at  her 
more  deliberately.  Even  the  sleepy  little  call  boy, 
regardless  of  the  summons  in  his  hand,  put  on  the  sapi 
ent  look  and  attitude  of  a  critic. 

"  If  I  could  but  shut  out  all  these  eyes  !  "  I  said  to 
myself.  But,  turn  whatever  way  I  would,  they  met 
me  —  hemmed  me  in  on  all  sides  —  girdled  me  with 
freezing  influences. 

After  we  had  taken  our  seats,  there  was  a  moment's 
awful  silence.  It  was  broken  by  Mr.  Barry's  digni 
fied  (he  was  alarmingly  dignified)  "  Commence,  if  you 
please." 

Mrs.  Vernon  spoke  the  first  lines  of  the  play.  By  a 
resolute  effort,  forcing  myself  into  composure,  I  replied. 


THE    FIRST    REHEARSAL.  221 

I  cannot  tell  why,  but  the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  dis 
tinct  and  untremulous,  reassured  me.  The  Rubicon 
was  passed.  I  thought  no  more  of  the  surrounding 
eyes,  so  full  of  "  speculation  "  —  of  the  covert  ill  wishes 
—  of  the  secret  condemnations.  I  gave  myself  up  to 
the  part,  and  acted  with  all  the  abandon  and  intensity 
of  which  I  was  capable. 

During  the  rehearsal  of  the  third  act,  I  was  startled  \X 
by  a  sudden  burst  of  applause.  It  came  from  a  crowd 
of  actors  at  the  side  scenes  —  an  involuntary  and  most 
unusual  tribute.  To  say  that  it  produced  no  effect  upon 
me  would  be  affectation.  For  a  moment  my  equanimity 
was  pleasurably  destroyed.  I  had  tasted  the  first  drop 
in  the  honeyed  cup  of  success. 

"  Go  on,  if  you  please  —  go  on,"  said  Mr.  Barry,  no 
ticing  the  pause  —  and  I  went  on. 

The  play  continued  and  ended  without  further  inter 
ruption.  When  it  was  over,  the  company  gathered 
around  me  with  tokens  of  undisguised  interest.  From 
many  lips  I  received  the  delightful  assurance  that,  if  I 
was  not  frightened  at  night,  I  should  achieve  a  great 
triumph. 

"  I  shall  not  be  frightened,"  I  answered  confidently. 

"  Not  be  frightened ! "  reiterated  Mr.  Skerrett,  (he 
was  at  that  time  the  low  comedian  of  the  Park  Thea 
tre  ;)  "  don't  ( lay  any  such  flattering  unction  to  your 
soul.'  When  night  comes,  you  will  be  frightened  half 
out  of  your  senses  —  you  don't  know  what  stage  frigid 
is!" 

•*  I  have  a  talisman  to  keep  off  stage  fright  —  the 
motive  that  brings  me  upon  the  stage." 

"  We  shall  see  ! "  was  his  incredulous  answer. 

None   but  actors   can   thoroughly   comprehend   the 


222      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTEESS. 

meaning  of  the  appalling  words  "  stage  fright,"  —  the 
nightmare  of  the  profession  —  a  sensation  of  icy  ter- 
ror^  to  which  no  language  can  give  adequate  utterance. 
I  have  seen  veteran  actors,  who  had  studied  some  new 
character  until  every  syllable  of  the  author  seemed 
indelibly  written  on  their  brains,  —  who  had  rehearsed 
their  parts  with  the  most  telling  enthusiasm,  —  who 
gloried  in  the  prospect  of  making  a  "hit,"  —  at  last, 
when  night  came,  and  they  stood  before  the  footlights  to 
imbody  the  ideal  creation  for  the  first  time,  I  have  seen 
them  seized  with  a  sudden  tremor- — their  utterance 
choked  —  their  eyes  rolling  about,  or  fixed  on  va 
cancy  —  their  limbs  shaking,  and  every  faculty  par 
alyzed. 

I  was  not  initiated  into  the  horrors  of  "  stage  fright" 
on  the  first  night  of  my  performance.  But  the  dramatic 
incubus  visited  me  in  its  worst  form  on  an  equally  im 
portant  occasion.  Nor  was  the  attack  the  sole  one  in 
my  professional  life.  By  what  magic  the  demon  can  be 
exorcised,  remains  an  undiscovered  mystery. 

The  morning  of  my  debut  was  passed  with  my  sisters. 
Scarcely  an  allusion  was  made  to  the  trying  event 
which  must  take  place  that  evening.  The  rich  apparel, 
spread  out  upon  the  bed,  received  its  finishing  touches 
at  their  hands,  and  was  consecrated  by  a  few  silent 
tears.  One  of  my  sisters  only  —  Julia,  the  youngest  — 
had  courage  to  be  present  when  that  attire  was  worn. 

My  costume  was  chosen  by  Mrs.  Vernon,  almost  the 
first  actress  with  whom  I  became  acquainted  —  a  lady 
highly  respected  and  beloved  in  the  profession.  Her 
name  and  that  of  her  relatives  have  done  honor  to  the 
stage  for  a  long  series  of  years. 

As  we  drove  to  the  theatre  at  night,  the  carriage 


STAB   DRESSING   ROOM. 


223 


passed  my  father's  house.  There  was  a  group  at  the 
window  watching  for  us.  Handkerchiefs  waved  as 
long  as  we  were  in  sight. 

I  cannot  help  wondering  what  sort  of  place  the  world 
in  general  imagine  the  "  star  dressing  room  "  to  be.  In 
the  days  of  my  nescience  I  presumed  that  it  was  a  sort 
of  boudoir,  prettily  and  comfortably  furnished,  to  which 
the  princesses  of  the  stage  retired  to  take  their  luxuri 
ous  ease.  But  O,  the  difference  !  The  "  star  dressing 
room  "  is  usually  a  small  closet-like  apartment,  with  a 
few  strips  of  well-worn  baize  or  carpet  on  the  floor.  A 
rude  wooden  shelf  runs  along  one  side  of  the  wall,  and 
serves  as  a  dressing  table,  A  dingy  looking  glass,  a 
couple  of  superannuated  chairs,  a  rickety  washstand,  — 
these  are,  generally  speaking,  the  richest  luxuries  of  the 
locality.  Such  was  the  "  star  dressing  room  "  to  which 
I  was  introduced  at  the  Park  Theatre.  Mr.  Mowatt's 
request  obtained  for  me  a  liliputian  sofa,  so  particularly 
hard  that  it  was  at  once  recognizable  as  a  theatrical 
"  property  "  —  a  thing  of  sham,  designed  for  the  decep 
tion  of  an  audience.  I  believe  even  the  demand  for 
this  delusive  accessory  to  comfort  was  considered  very 
unreasonable. 

I  was  just  dressed  when  there  came  a  slight  tap  upon 
the  door,  accompanied  by  the  words,  "  Pauline,  you  are 
called." 

I  opened  the  dcor.  The  call  boy  stood  without  — 
the  inseparable  long  strip  of  paper  between  his  fingers. 
I  inquired  who  he  wanted. 

"  You,  ma'am  ;  you  are  called." 

"  "What  a  singular  piece  of  familiarity ! "  I  thought 
to  myself.  "  It  is  I  whom  he  is  addressing  as  '  Pau 
line.'  "  I  did  not  suspect  that  it  was  customary  to 


224      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

call  the  performers  by  the  names  of  the  characters  as 
sumed. 

"  Called  for  what  ?  "  I  inquired,  in  a  manner  that  was 
intended  to  impress  the  daring  offender  with  a  sense  of 
the  respect  due  to  me. 

"  For  what  ?  "  he  retorted,  prolonging  the  what  with 
an  indescribably  humorous  emphasis,  and  thrusting  his 
tongue  against  his  cheek,  "why,  for  the  stage,  to  be 
sure  !  That's  the  what !  " 

"  0  !  "  was  all  I  could  say  ;  and  the  little  urchin  ran 
down  stairs  smothering  his  laughter.  Its  echo,  how 
ever,  reached  me  from  the  greenroom,  where,  after 
making  his  "  call,"  he  had  probably  related  my  unso 
phisticated  inquiry. 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Mowatt  came  to  conduct  me  to 
the  stage.  Mrs.  Vernon,  who  played  my  mother,  was 
already  seated  at  a  small  table  in  Madame  Deschapelles' 
drawing  room.  I  took  my  place  on  a  sofa  opposite 
to  her,  holding  in  my  hand  a  magnificent  bouquet, 
Claude's  supposed  offering  to  Pauline. 

After  a  few  whispered  words  of  encouragement,  Mr. 
Mowatt  left  me,  to  witness  the  performance  from  the 
front  of  the  house.  Somebody  spread  my  Pauline 
scarf  on  the  chair  beside  me.  Somebody  else  arranged 
the  folds  of  my  train  symmetrically.  Somebody's  fingers 
gathered  into  their  place  a  few  stray  curls.  The  stage 
manager  gave  the  order  of  "  Clear  the  stage,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,"  and  I  heard  sound  the  little  bell  for  the 
raising  of  the  curtain. 

Until  that  moment  I  do  not  think  a  pulse  in  my 
frame  had  quickened  its  beating.      But   then   I   was 
seized  with  a  stifling  sensation,  as  though  I  were  chok-, 
ing.     I  could  only  gasp  out,  "  Not  yet  —  I  cannot ! " 


RISING   OF   THE    CURTAIN'.  225 

Of  course,  there  was  general  confusion.  Managers, 
actors,  prompter,  all  rushed  on  the  stage ;  some  offered 
water,  some  scent  bottles,  some  fanned  me.  Every  body 
seemed  prepared  to  witness  a  fainting  fit,  or  an  attack 
of  hysterics,  or  something  equally  ridiculous.  I  was 
arguing  with  myself  against  the  absurdity  of  this  ungov 
ernable  emotion  —  this  humiliating  exhibition  —  and 
making  a  desperate  endeavor  to  regain  my  self-posses 
sion,  when  Mr.  Skerrett  thrust  his  comic  face  over 
somebody's  shoulder.  He  looked  at  me  with  an  expres 
sion  of  quizzical  exultation,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so?  Where's  all  the  courage, 
eh?" 

The  words  recalled  my  boast  of  the  morning ;  or 
rather,  they  recalled  the  recollections  upon  which  that 
boast  was  founded.  My  composure  returned  as  rapidly 
as  it  had  departed.  I  laughed  at  my  own  weakness. 

"  Are  you  getting  better  ?  "  kindly  inquired  the  stage 
manager. 

"  Let  the  curtain  rise !  "  was  the  satisfactory  answer. 

Mr.  Barry  clapped  his  hands,  —  a  signal  for  the  stage 
to  be  vacated,  —  the  crowd  at  once  disappeared.  Ma 
dame  Deschapelles  and  Pauline  sat  alone,  as  before. 
The  tinkling  bell  of  warning  rang,  and  the  curtain 
slowly  ascended,  disclosing  first  the  footlights,  then  the 
ocean  of  heads  beyond  them  in  the  pit,  then  the  bril 
liant  array  of  ladies  in  the  boxes,  tier  after  tier,  and 
finally  the  thronged  galleries.  I  found  those  footlights 
an  invaluable  aid  to  the  necessary  illusion.  They 
formed  a  dazzling  barrier,  that  separated  the  spectator 
from  the  ideal  worli  in  which  the  actor  dwelt.  Their 
glare  prevented  the  eye  from  being  distracted  by  ob 
jects  without  the  precincts  of  that  luminous  semicircle. 
15 


226      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

They  were  a  friendly  protection,  a  warm  comfort,  an 
idealizing  auxiliary. 

The  debutante  was  greeted  warmly.  This  was  but 
a  matter-of-course  compliment  paid  by  a  New  York 
audience  to  the  daughter  of  a  well-known  citizen. 

"  Bow !  bow ! "  whispered  a  voice  from  behind  the 
scenes.  And  I  obediently  bent  my  head. 

"  Bow  to  your  right ! "  said  the  voice,  between  the  in 
tervals  of  applause.  I  bowed  to  the  right. 

"  Bow  to  the  left ! "     I  bowed  to  the  left. 

"  Bow  again  ! "  I  bowed  again  and  again  while  the 
noisy  welcome  lasted. 

The  play  commenced,  and,  with  the  first  words  I 
uttered,  I  concentrated  my  thoughts,  and  tried  to  forget 
that  I  had  any  existence  save  that  of  the  scornful 
Lady  of  Lyons.  When  we  rose  from  our  seats  and 
approached  the  footlights,  Mrs.  Vernon  gave  my  hand 
a  reassuring  pressure.  It  was  a  kindness  scarcely 
needed.  I  had  lost  all  sensation  of  alarm.  The  play 
progressed  as  smoothly  as  it  commenced.  In  the  third 
act,  where  Pauline  first  discovers  the  treachery  of 
Claude,  the  powers  of  the  actress  begin  to  be  tested. 
Every  point  told,  and  was  rewarded  with  an  inspiring 
burst  of  applause.  The  audience  had  determined  to 
blow  into  a  flame  the  faintest  spark  of  merit. 

In  the  fourth  act,  I  became  greatly  exhausted  with 
the  unusual  excitement  and  exertion.  There  seemed  a 
probability  that  I  would  not  have  physical  strength  to 
enable  me  to  finish  the  performance.  Mrs.  Vernon  has 
often  laughingly  reminded  me  how  she  shook  and 
pinched  me  when  I  was  lying,  to  all  appearance,  ten 
derly  clasped  in  her  arms.  She  maintains  that,  by  these 
means,  she  constantly  roused  me  to  consciousness.  I 


SUMMONS    BEFORE    THE    CURTAIN.  227 

am  her  debtor  for  the  friendly  pinches  and  opportune 
shakes. 

In  the  fifth  act,  Pauline's  emotions  are  all  of  calm 
and  abject  grief  —  the  faint,  hopeless  strugglings 
of  a  broken  heart.  My  very  weariness  aided  the  per 
sonation.  The  pallor  of  excessive  fatigue,  the  worn- 
out  look,  .tottering  walk,  and  feeble  voice,  suited 
Pauline's  deep  despair.  The  audience  attributed  to  an 
actor's  consummate  skill  that  which  was  merely  a  pain 
ful  and  accidental  reality. 

The  play  ended,  the  curtain  fell.  It  would  be  im 
possible  to  describe  my  sensations  of  relief  as  I  watched 
that  welcome  screen  of  coarse,  green  baize  slowly  un 
rolling  itself  and  dropping  between  the  audience  and 
the  stage.  Then  came  the  call  before  the  curtain  —  the 
crossing  the  stage  in  front  of  the  footlights.  Mr. 

C led  me  out.     The  whole  house  rose,  even  the    \/ 

ladies  —  a  compliment  seldom  paid.  I  think  it  rained 
flowers  ;  for  bouquets,  wreaths  of  silver,  and  wreaths  of 
laurel  fell  in  showers  around  us.  Cheer  followed 
cheer  as  they  were  gathered  up  and  laid  in  my 
arms.  The  hats  of  gentlemen,  and  handkerchiefs  of 
ladies  waved  on  every  side.  I  courtesied  my  thanks, 
and  the  welcome  green  curtain  once  more  shut  out  the 
brilliant  assemblage.  Then  came  the  deeper,  truer 
sense  of  thankfulness.  The  trial  was  over  ;  the  debu 
tante  had  stood  the  test;  she  had  not  mistaken  the 
career  which  had  been  clearly  pointed  out  as  the  one 
for  which  she  was  destined. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  my  father's  house  as  we  drove 
home.  He  had  heard  the  wheels,  and  opened  the  coach 
door  himself.  Fondly  and  closely  was  one  occupant 
of  that  carriage  pressed  to  his  heart.  My  sense  of 


228       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

distinctive  appreciation  must  have  been  blunted  indeed 
if  his  words  of  congratulation  did  not  fall  sweeter  upon 
my  ears  than  all  the  applause  that  was  still  echoing 
within  them.  He  had  witnessed  the  performance 
from  a  private  box,  but  I  had  not  been  aware  of  his 
presence. 

The  next  morning  the  press  were  unanimous  in  com 
mendation.  The  journals  of  the  day  were  filled  with 
gratifying  predictions  —  prophecies  that  have  not  re 
mained  wholly  unrealized. 

Offers  of  engagements  in  all  the  principal  theatres 
throughout  the  Union  now  poured  in  upon  us.  The 
first  engagement  that  we  accepted  was  at  the  Walnut 
Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia,  where  Fashion  had  been 
produced. 

I  made  my  appearance  there  a  few  nights  after  my 
debut  in  New  York.  If  I  had  abundant  cause  for 
gratitude  and  self-congratulation  on  the  first  night  of 
my  appearance  in  public,  I  suffered  enough  upon  the 
second  to  atone  for  all  the  elation  or  vanity  of  which  I 
may  have  been  guilty. 

Mr.  C 's  contract  stipulated  that  he  should  play 

opposite  characters  to  me  in  whatever  theatre  we  ap 
peared.  Mr.  Wheatley  was  an  established  favorite  at 
the  Walnut  Street  Theatre.  He  had  enacted,  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  audience,  the  same  role  that  Mr. 
C was  called  upon  to  assume.  The  manager  re 
monstrated  at  Mr.  Wheatley's  being  displaced ;  various 
friends  assured  us  that  the  public  would  demand  him 

as  my  support ;  but  what  could  be  done  ?  Mr.  C 

had  the  right  of  supporting  me  by  contract ;  he  could 
not  be  asked  to  forego  a  right  so  advantageous.  Had 
Le  been  asked,  he  would  certainly  have  given  an  indig 
nant  refusal. 


FIRST   NIGHT   IN    PHILADELPHIA.  229 

The  play  was  the  Lady  of  Lyons.  The  house  was 
crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity.  For  the  second  time 
I  took  my  seat  upon  the  small  sofa  to  represent  Pauline 
Deschapelles.  The  curtain  rose.  The  welcome  was 
fully  as  cordial  as  in  New  York.  The  first  act  and 
the  second  act  passed  off  uninterruptedly  as  before. 
In  the  third,  Pauline  is  thrown  constantly  with  Claude. 

I  observed  that  Mr.  C hesitated  in  the  words  of 

his  part ;  now  and  then  he  spoke  in  a  thick  voice  ;  he 
walked  with  an  unsteady  step  ;  and  when  the  business 
of  the  play  required  him  to  take  my  hand,  his  own 
trembled  violently. 

"  This  is  what  actors  call  i  stage  fright, ' "  was  my 
internal  reflection ;  "  he  knows  that  the  audience  de 
sire  Mr.  Wheatley  in  this  part ;  and  he  is  so  much 
alarmed  that  he  cannot  act" 

This  misplaced  emotion,  as  I  thought  it,  on  the  part 
of  Claude,  distracted  my  attention,  and  prevented  my 
identifying  myself  with  the  character  of  Pauline. 

In  the  fourth  act,  during  the  scene  between  the 
widow  and  Pauline,  Beauseant  and  Pauline,  I  began  to 
recover  my  suspended  faculties.  Claude  enters ;  and 
with  the  first  words  he  uttered  came  that  sound, 
more  fearful  than  all  others  to  an  actor's  ears  —  a  hiss 
—  a  faint  one,  still  a  hiss  !  I  heard  Claude  groan  and 
ejaculate  something  in  an  undertone.  I  felt  indignant 
at  the  want  of  generosity  displayed  by  the  audience. 
As  the  act  advanced,  the  hisses  were  repeated  when 
ever  he  spoke.  A  succession  of  false  notes  in  a  concert 
could  not  have  a  more  jarring  effect  upon  the  nerves. 
I  could  scarcely  remember  a  line  of  my  part,  and,  im 
mediately  after  the  curtain  fell,  had  not  the  slightest  recol 
lection  how  the  act  ended. 


230      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

After  a  change  of  attire,  Pauline  appears  alone  in  the 
fifth  act.  When  the  scene  opened,  the  audience  loudly 
testified  by  their  grdeting  that  no  share  of  their  dis 
pleasure  was  intended  for  me.  I  was  too  much  agitated 
to  attempt  to  personate  Pauline  as  I  had  done  on  a  pre 
vious  occasion.  I  mechanically  uttered  the  words  of  : 
the  text.  The  anticipation  of  Claude's  appearance, 
which  must  take  place  in  a  few  moments,  had  filled  me 
with  dread  —  a  fear  that  was  too  well  founded.  The 
audience  allowed  him  to  enter,  and  were  silent.  Pauline 
makes  her  appeal  to  Colonel  Damas  ;  Claude  advances, 
and  she  approaches  him.  Without  looking  at  him,  I 
hurried  over  the  language  of  the  part,  not  waiting  for 
his  few  words  of  reply,  and  turned  to  the  table,  where 
the  father  and  mother  of  Pauline  were  seated.  *  Then 
Claude  must  speak.  The  hisses  of  the  audience  were 
deafening.  The  theatre  seemed  suddenly  filled  with 
snakes.  I  turned  round  instinctively ;  the  pit  had  risen 
in  a  body  with  evident  intention  of  violence.  (I  after 
wards  heard  that  they  were  prepared  to  fling  brickbats 
at  the  offending  Claude.)  I  did  not  suspect  in  what 

manner   Mr.   C had   deserved   their    displeasure. 

That  he  chanced  to  be  an  Englishman  was,  I  imagined, 
his  principal  crime ;  and  the  audience  chose  that  I 
should  appear  with  my  own  countryman,  Mr.  Wheatley, 
their  avowed  favorite. 

Advancing  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  I  rapidly  en 
treated  their  forbearance.  What  I  said  I  have  not  the 
remotest  idea ;  for  I  acted  on  impulse,  and  under  strong 
excitement,  believing  that  I  was  only  preventing  a  gross 
injustice.  Instantaneously  every  seat  was  resumed.  A 
dead  silence  prevailed  while  I  spoke,  and  applause  took 
the  place  of  hisses.  There  were  too  many  true  gentle- 


sc 


A   DISTRESSING   DISCOVERT.  231 

men  present  for  Mr.  C to  liave  any  thing  further  to 

fear,  little  as  he  merited  the  defence.  A  faint  attempt 
was  made  to  conclude  the  play.  The  audience  offered 
no  opposition,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  curtain  fell. 

I  was  unwilling  to  respond  to  the  "  call,"  but  yielded 

to  the  request  of  the  managers.  Mr.  C offered  to 

lead  me  out.  I  knew  that  it  was  unwise  to  accept  his 
services,  but  I  could  not  refuse  them  without  wounding 
him  more  deeply.  He  stooped  to  gather  the  bouquets 
with  which  the  audience,  in  anticipation  of  a  perform 
ance  very  different  from  the  one  they  had  witnessed, 
came  supplied.  Then  I  noticed  that  he  reeled  from  side 
to  side,  and,  after  bending  down,  could  scarcely  regain  his 
equilibrium.  I  thought  it  very  strange  that  his  "  stage 
fright "  deprived  him  of  the  faculty  of  moving  about 
without  staggering,  when  the  play  was  ended.  The  in 
stant  we  were  behind  the  scenes  again,  he  gave  way  to 
an  extravagant  burst  of  grief,  and  darted  off,  followed 
by  several  of  his  friends. 

Mr.  Mowatt  was  leading  me  to  my  dressing  room 
when  I  overheard  the  Madame  Deschapelles  of  the 
evening  say  to  another  lady,  "  He  got  no  more  than  he 
deserved  —  I  wish  they  had  brickbated  him  —  the 
man  was  as  drunk  as  he  could  be ! " 

"  "What  a  shame ! "  I  involuntarily  exclaimed,  turning 
to  Mr.  Mowatt;  "did  you  hear  what  that  woman 
said?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  and  it  is  too  true.  I  saw  you 
did  not  suspect  his  situation,  and  purposely  left  you  in 
ignorance." 

Suspect  it  ?  The  idea  that  he  was  intoxicated  never 
once  entered  my  head.  Nor  was  it  remarkable  that  I 
should  not  have  recognized  the  workings  of  the  enemy 


232       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

which  "  men  put  into  their  mouths  to  steal  away  their 
brains ; "  for  up  to  that  period  it  had  been  my  fortune 
to  witness  few  similar  exhibitions. 

The  painful  impressions  of  that  wretched  night  very 
nearly  gave  me  a  distaste  for  the  profession  —  but  I 
had  not  entered  it  for  amusement. 

The  next  night  Mr.  C made  an  apology  to  the  au 
dience,  stating  that  he  had  been  led  into  an  unwonted 
indiscretion  while  "  dining  out,"  and  entreating  their 
indulgence.  They  pardoned  him  nominally,  but  rarely 
bestowed  upon  his  best  efforts  any  evidence  of  approval. 
The  engagement  was  a  trying  one,  and  I  rejoiced  when 
it  was  concluded.  The  houses  were  but  half  filled,  and 
I  labored  under  a  sense  of  depression  which  nothing 
could  remove. 

At  the  close  of  the  fortnight  Mr.  C returned  to 

New  York,  and  I  remained  one  night  in  Philadelphia  to 
appear  for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Blake,  the  stage  manager. 
He  selected  Fashion  as  the  play  to  be  represented,  and 
persuaded  me  to  enact  Gertrude.  The  character  affords 
no  opportunity  for  the  display  of  dramatic  abilities,  and 
f.  reluctantly  consented.  Once  more  an  audience  as 
fashionable  and  as  crowded  as  the  one  which  witnessed 
the  miseries  of  my  first  night  in  Philadelphia  graced  the 
theatre.  Mr.  Wheatley  appeared  in  his  original  part 
of  the  Count,  and  was  received  with  enthusiasm.  Mr. 
Blake's  Adam  Trueman  was  more  truthful  and  touching 
than  ever.  The  play  could  not  on  any  occasion  have 
given  more  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


The  frst  Year  on  the  Stage.  —  Tico  Hundred  Performances.  — 
Amount  of  Study.  —  Lady  Teazle's  untimely  Drowsiness.  —  First 
Shakspcarian  Impersonation.  —  Difference  between  Rehearsing  and 
Acting.  —  Julie  fs  Tomb.  —  Scene  Shifter's  sepulchral  Prediction. 
—  Xoi-el  Substitute  for  a  Sleeping  Potion.  —  Death  of  Paris  *y 
a  Novice.  —  Tico  Schools  of  Acting.  —  Anecdote  of  a  Stranger.  — 
Mrs.  Hatter's  colored  Descendants.  —  Incident  in  Charleston.  — 
Address  to  the  Charleston  Volunteers.  —  Co?nph'mentary  Entertain 
ment  in  Savannah.  —  Relationship  tchich  Actors  hold  to  each  other. 


made  the  tour  of  the  United  States,  and  met 
with  an  uninterrupted  series  of  successes. 

Every  night  not  consumed  in  travelling  was  engaged 
at  various  theatres  for  a  year  in  advance.  In  New 
York  we  fulfilled  a  long  engagement  at  Niblo's,  but  did 
not  appear  again  at  the  Park  Theatre  until  spring.  In 
that  first  year  I  acted  two  hundred  nights. 

"When  I  made  my  debut  I  was  only  prepared  in  one 
part  ;  yet,  before  the  close  of  the  year,  I  had  enacted 
all  the  most  popular  characters  in  juvenile  comedy 
and  tragedy.  From  this  fact  some  estimate  may  be 
formed  of  the  amount  of  study  requisite.  Often  after 
a  protracted  rehearsal  in  the  morning,  and  an  arduous 
performance  at  night,  I  returned  home  from  the  theatre 
wearied  out  in  mind  and  body  ;  yet  I  dared  not  rest. 
The  character  to  be  represented  on  the  succeeding  night 
still  required  several  hours  of  reflection  and  application. 
Sometimes  I  kept  myself  awake  by  bathing  my  heavy 
eyes  and  throbbing  temples  with  iced  water  as  I  com- 

(233) 


234       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

mitted  the  words  to  memory.  Sometimes  I  could  only 
battle  with  the  angel  who 

"  Knits  up  the  ravelled  sleeve  of  care  " 

by  rapidly  pacing  the  room  while  I  studied.  Now  and 
then  I  was  fairly  conquered,  and  fell  asleep  over  my 
books. 

Strange  to  say,  my  health,  instead  of  failing  entirely, 
as  was  predicted,  visibly  improved.  The  deleterious 
effects  of  late  hours  were  counteracted  by  constant  ex 
ercise,  an  animating,  exhilarating  pursuit,  and  the  all- 
potent  nepenthe  of  inner  peace.  I  gained  new  vigor 
and  elasticity.  With  the  additional  burden  came  the 
added  strength  whereby  it  could  be  borne. 

As  may  be  readily  imagined,  I  was  often  weary  to 
exhaustion,  even  during  the  performance.  On  one  oc 
casion  my  fatigue  very  nearly  placed  me  in  a  predica 
ment  as  awkward  to  me  as  it  would  have  been  amusing 
to  the  audience.  We  were  fulfilling  a  long  engagement 
at  Niblo's.  I  was  playing  Lady  Teazle  in  the  School 
for  Scandal.  When  Lady  Teazle,  at  the  announcement 
of  Sir  Peter,  is  concealed  behind  the  screen  in  Joseph 
Surface's  library,  she  is  compelled  to  remain  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  or  perhaps  twenty  minutes,  in  this  confine 
ment.  I  was  dreadfully  fatigued,  and  glad  of  the  op 
portunity  to  rest.  There  was  no  chair.  At  first  I 
knelt  for  relief.  Becoming  tired  of  that  position,  I 
quietly  laid  myself  down,  and,  regardless  of  Lady  Tea 
zle's  ostrich  plumes,  made  a  pillow  of  my  arms  for  my 
head.  I  listened  to  Placide's  most  humorous  persona 
tion  of  Sir  Peter  for  a  while ;  but  gradually  his  voice 
grew  more  and  more  indistinct,  melting  into  a  soothing 
murmur,  and  then  was  heard  no  more.  I  fell  into  a 


INOPPORTUNE    SLUMBEE.  235 

profound  sleep.  When  Charles  Surface  is  announced, 
Sir  Peter  is  hurried  by  Joseph  into  the  closet.  Lady 
Teazle  (according  to  Sheridan)  peeps  from  behind  the 
screen,  and  intimates  to  Joseph  the  propriety  of  locking 
Sir  Peter  in,  and  proposes  her  own  escape.  At  the 
sound  of  Charles  Surface's  step,  she  steals  behind 
the  screen  again.  The  cue  was  given,  but  no  Lady 
Teazle  made  her  appearance.  She  was  slumbering  in 
happy  unconsciousness  that  theatres  were  ever  instituted. 

Mr.  Jones,  the  prompter,  supposing  that  I  had  for 
gotten  my  part,  ran  to  one  of  the  wings  from  which  he 
could  obtain  a  view  behind  the  screen.  To  his  mingled 
diversion  and  consternation,  he  beheld  Lady  Teazle 
placidly  sleeping  upon  the  floor.  Of  course,  he  could 
not  reach  her.  I  have  often  heard  him  relate  the  fran 
tic  manner  in  which  he  shouted,  in  an  imploring  stage 
whisper,  "  Mrs.  Mowatt,  wake-up  !  For  goodness'  sake, 
wake  up !  Charles  Surface  is  just  going  to  pull  the 
screen  down !  Wake  up !  You'll  be  caught  by  the 
audience  asleep  !  Wake  up !  Good  gracious,  do  wake 
up!" 

I  have  some  confused  recollection  of  hearing  the 
words  "  wake  up !  wake  up  ! "  As  I  opened  my  heavy 
eyes,  they  fell  upon  Mr.  Jones,  making  the  most  violent 
gesticulations,  waving  about  his  prompt  book,  and  almost 
dancing  in  the  excitement  of  his  alarm.  The  hand  of 
Charles  Surface  was  already  on  the  screen.  I  sprang 
to  my  feet,  hardly  remembering  where  I  was,  and  had 
barely  time  to  smooth  down  my  train  when  the  screen 
fell.  A  moment  sooner,  and  how  would  the  slumbering 
Lady  Teazle,  suddenly  awakened,  have  contrived  to  im 
press  the  audience  with  the  sense  of  her  deep  contri 
tion  for  her  imprudence !  how  persuaded  her  husband 


236      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

that  she  had  discovered  her  injustice  to  him  during  her 
pleasant  nap ! 

The  second  character  which  I  enacted  was  Juliana, 
in  Tobin's  comedy  of  the  Honeymoon.  I  plead  guilty 
to  the  bad  taste  of  delineating  with  especial  delight  the 
piquant  shrewishness  of  the  "  painter's  daughter." 

My  third  character  was  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor. 

And  then,  with  timid  reverence,  I  ventured  to  bow 
the  knee  at  the  shrine  of  the  mighty  master.  My 
whole  being  merged  itself  into  the  impassioned  exist 
ence  of  Shakspeare's  Juliet. 

During  the  drudgery  of  rehearsal,  the  actor  drops 
disenchanted  from  the  realms  of  cloudland,  where  he 
dwelt  with  the  ideal  creations  of  the  poet.  The  incon 
gruous  elements  that  compose,  the  frigid  atmosphere 
that  pervades,  a  theatre  blind  his  mental  vision.  He 
struggles  in  vain  to  catch  the  golden  rays  that  flooded 
his  spirit  in  its  serene  seclusion.  The  prismatic  hues 
of  imagination  fade  into  utter  darkness  before  the  con 
ventionalities  of  his  profession.  All  the  delicacies  of 
his  inspired  conception  suddenly  vanish,  and  he  stands 
with  the  bare,  cold  outline  of  what  he  designed,  before 
him,  powerless  to  clothe  it  with  beauty.  Thus  I  felt 
when  I  first  attempted  to  rehearse  Juliet.  Disap 
pointed  and  dispirited,  I  turned  wearily  from  the  task. 

But  when  night  comes,  and  the  actor  lays  aside  his 
personality  with  his  every-day  garments,  the  Prome 
thean  fire  is  rekindled  —  he  reascends  the  height  from 
which  he  fell  in  the  morning  —  external  circumstances 
lie  beneath  his  feet  —  his  gaze  is  upward,  not  down 
ward  —  he  not  imbodies  merely,  but  ensouls  the  ema 
nation  of  the  poet's  mind.  Such  were  my  experiences 
when  I  first  had  the  hardihood  to  enact  Juliet. 


JULIET'S  DAGGER.  237 

No  character  ever  excited  me  more  intensely.  Ju 
liet's  dagger,  too  impetuously  used,  more  than  once  drew 
blood.  But  I  found  the  sensation  of  stabbing  one's  self 
any  thing  but  poetic;  the  dagger's  point  was  conse 
quently  dulled  into  harmlessness.  Once  I  forgot  this 
necessary  appendage  of  the  heroine  in  the  last  act 
Ronieo,  who  was  lying  dead  upon  the  ground,  was  better 
provided.  As  I  stooped  to  loosen  the  steel  from  his 
girdle,  the  poisoned  lover,  who  was  aware  of  my  stab 
bing  episodes,  came  suddenly  to  life,  and  whispered,  in 
a  sepulchral  tone,  "  Look  out  —  it's  very  sharp  —  you'll 
stab  yourself." 

I  well  remember  my  sensations  the  first  time  I  was 
ever  laid  in  Juliet's  tomb.  The  friar  tells  her  that,  ac 
cording  to  the  custom  of  her  country,  she  shall  be  borne 

"  In  her  best  robes,  uncovered,  on  the  bier." 

Adhering  to  the  text,  I  have  since  worn  bridal  attire  in 
place  of  the  shroud-like  dress  usually  adopted  by  stage 
Juliets.  But  that  night  a  loose  white  muslin  robe, 
drawn  in  folds  around  the  throat,  and  fastened  with  a 
cord  at  the  waist,  was  the  garment  accidentally  chosen 
for  me.  It  was  too  palpably  suited  to  the  bier.  The 
walls  of  the  tomb  were  hung  with  black.  An  antique 
lamp,  that  shed  a  luridly-green  light  upon  my  face,  wa3 
suspended  from  the  centre  of  the  sombre,  though  tem 
porary,  enclosure.  As  I  lay  waiting  for  Romeo  to  kill 
Paris  and  break  open  the  doors  of  the  sepulchre,  I 
overheard  the  whispered  conversation  of  some  scene 
shifters  who  stood  without.  They  were  each  holding  a 
cord  attached  to  the  doors  of  the  tomb.  The  cords,  ac 
cording  to  stage  direction,  were  to  be  loosened  at  the 
third  blow  of  Romeo's  "  wrenching  iron."  The  worthy 


238      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

scene  shifters  passed  sentence  of  death  upon  me  with 
admirable  sangfroid,  and  decided  that  I  would  soon  be 
lying  "  for  good  "  and  "  in  earnest ''  where  I  was  then 
reposing  as  Juliet's  representative  —  in  the  tomb. 

To  use  the  expressive  language  of  one  of  the  men,  I 
was  "  booked  for  the  other  world,  and  no  mistake ! " 
Their  grave  predictions  were  interrupted  by  Romeo's 
first  blow  upon  the  door.  I  was  not  particularly  sorry 
when  the  funereal  portals  flew  back,  and  he  bore  me 
out  of  the  mock  sepulchre. 

Juliet  was  one  of  the  characters  in  which  I  seemed 
fated  to  be  placed  in  constant  peril  of  life  or  limb. 
Several  times  the  balcony,  from  which  the  loving  lady 
of  Verona  makes  her  midnight  confession  to  Romeo, 
was  dangerously  insecure.  Once  a  portion  of  the  rail 
ing,  over  which  I  was  leaning,  forgetful  of  its  repre 
sentative  nature,  gave  way.  Had  I  not  dropped  sud 
denly  on  my  knees,  Juliet  must  have  been  precipitated 
into  Romeo's  arms  before  he  expected  her,  and  very 
probably  would  not  have  visited  Friar  Lawrence's  cell 
that  night. 

One  evening,  the  property  man  —  so  the  individual 
who  has  the  charge  of  potions,  amulets,  caskets  of  jewels, 
purses  filled  with  any  quantity  of  golden  coin,  and  other 
theatrical  treasures,  designated  as  stage  properties,  is 
styled  —  forgot  the  bottle  containing  Juliet's  sleeping 
potion.  The  omission  was  only  discovered  at  the  mo 
ment  the  vial  was  needed.  Some  bottle  must  be  fur 
nished  to  the  Friar,  or  he  cannot  utter  the  solemn  charge 
with  which  he  confides  the  drug  to  the  perplexed  scion 
of  the  Capulets.  The  property  man,  confused  at  discov 
ering  his  own  neglect,  and  fearful  of  the  fine  to  which  it 
would  subject  him,  caught  up  the  first  small  bottle  at 


AN   IXKY   POTIOX.  239 

hand,  and  gave  it  to  the  Friar.  The  vial  was  the 
prompter's,  and  contained  ink.  When  Juliet  snatched 
the  fatal  potion  from  the  Friar's  hand,  he  whispered 
something  in  an  undertone.  I  caught  the  words,  "  so 
take  care,"  but  was  too  absorbed  in  my  part  to  compre 
hend  the  warning.  Juliet  returns  home  —  meets  her 
parents  —  retires  to  her  own  chamber  —  dismisses  her 
nurse  —  and  finally  drinks  the  potion.  At  the  words,  — 

"  Romeo !  this  do  I  drink  to  thee  ! " 

I  placed  the  bottle  to  my  lips,  and  unsuspiciously  swal 
lowed  the  inky  draft !  The  dark  stain  upon  my  hands 
and  lips  might  have  been  mistaken  for  the  quick  work 
ings  of  the  poison,  for  the  audience  remained  ignorant  of 
the  mishap,  which  I  only  half  comprehended.  When  the 
scene  closed,  the  prompter  rushed  up  to  me,  exclaiming, 
"  Good  gracious !  you  have  been  drinking  from  my  bot 
tle  of  ink  ! "  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  quoting 
the  remark  of  the  dying  wit  under  similar  circum 
stances  —  "  Let  me  swallow  a  sheet  of  blotting  paper ! " 
The  frightened  prompter,  however,  did  not  understand 
the  joke. 

The  misfortunes  that  attended  the  representation  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet  that  night  did  not  all  fall  upon  me. 
The  part  of  Paris  was  intrusted  to  a  promising  young 
novice.  He  delivered  the  language  with  scholarly  pre 
cision,  and  might  have  passed  for  an  actor  until  he 
came  to  the  fighting  scene  with  Romeo.  Romeo  dis 
armed  him  with  a  facility  which  did  great  credit  to  the 
good  nature  of  Paris,  for  whom  life  had,  of  course,  lost 
its  charms  with  Juliet.  It  then  became  the  duty  of 
Paris,  who  is  mortally  wounded,  to  die.  The  Paris 
on  this  occasion  took  his  death  blow  very  kindly.  His 


240       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

dying  preparations  were  made  with  praiseworthy  de 
liberation.  First  he  looked  over  one  shoulder,  and  then 
over  the  other,  to  find  a  soft  place  where  he  might  fall 
—  it  was  evidently  his  intention  to  yield  up  his  exist 
ence  as  comfortably  as  possible.  Having  satisfied  him 
self  in  the  selection  of  an  advantageous  spot,  he  dropped 
down  gently,  breaking  his  descent  in  a  manner  not  al 
together  describable.  As  he  softly  laid  himself  back, 
he  informed  Romeo  of  the  calamity  that  had  befallen 
him  by  ejaculating,  — 

"  0, 1  am  slain  !  " 

The  audience  hissed  their  rebellion  at  such  an  easy 

death. 

"  If  thou  art  merciful " 

continued  Paris  —  the  audience  hissed  more  loudly  still, 
as  though  calling  upon  Romeo  to  show  no  mercy  to  a 
man  who  died  so  luxuriously. 

"  Open  the  tomb,  and " 

faltered  Paris  —  but  what  disposition  he  preferred  to 
be  made  of  the  mortal  mould,  upon  which  he  had  be 
stowed  such  care,  no  Romeo  could  have  heard ;  for  the 
redoubled  hisses  of  the  audience  drowned  all  other 
sounds,  and  admonished  Paris  to  precipitate  his  depart 
ure  to  the  other  world. 

The  next  day,  the  young  aspirant  for  dramatic  dis 
tinction  was  summoned  by  the  manager,  and  asked  what 
he  meant  by  dying  in  such  a  manner  on  the  night 
previous. 

"  Why,  I  thought  that  I  did  the  thing  in  the  most 
gentlemanly  style,"  replied  the  discomfited  Thespian. 

"  How  came  you  to  look  behind  you,  sir,  before  you 
fell  ?  "  angrily  inquired  the  manager. 


TWO    SCHOOLS    OF    ACTING.  241 

"  Surely  you  wouldn't  have  had  me  drop  down  with 
out  looking  out  to  see  what  I  was  going  to  strike 
against  ?  " 

"  Do  you  suppose  a  man,  when  he  is  killed  in  reality, 
looks  behind  him  for  a  convenient  spot  before  he  falls, 
sir?" 

"  But  I  wasn't  killed  in  reality,  and  I  was  afraid  of 
dislocating  my  shoulder !  "  pleaded  Paris. 

"  Afraid  of  dislocating  your  shoulder  !  If  you  are 
afraid  of  breaking  your  leg  or  your  neck  either,  when 
you  are  acting,"  said  the  stern  manager,  "  you're  not  fit 
for  this  profession.  Your  instinct  of  self-preservation 
is  too  large -for  an  actor's  economy.  You're  dismissed, 
sir;  there's  no  employment  here  for  persons  of  your 
cautious  temperament." 

There  are  two  distinct  schools  of  acting,  and  it  is  a 
disputed  point  which  is  the  greater.  The  actor  of  the  one 
school  totally  loses  his  own  individuality,  and  abandons 
himself  to  all  the  absorbing  emotions  that  belong  to  the 
character  he  interprets.  His  tears  are  real,  his  laugh 
ter  real,  as  real  to  hi&self  as  to  the  audience.  Fre 
quently  they  are  more  real  to  himself  than  to  his  listen 
ers  ;  for  the  capacity  of  feeling,  and  the  faculty  of  ex 
pressing  the  sensation  experienced,  are  widely  different. 
The  current  upon  which  the  actor  is  borne  away  may, 
or  may  not,  be  strong  enough  to  bear  the  spectator  upon 
its  bosom.  Byron  says,  — 

"  The  poet  claims  our  tears :  but  by  your  leare, 
Before  we  shed  them,  fa  u-s  see  him  grieve! " 

But  audiences  say  nothing  of  the  kind.     They  are  oft- 
ener  moved  by  what  is  simulated  than  by  what  is  felt. 
16 


242      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  paste  jewel  glitters  more  brightly  in  their  eyes 
than  the  diamond  of  pure  water. 

The  actor  of  an  opposite  school,  if  he  be  a  thorough 
artist,  is  more  certain  of  producing  startling  effects. 
He  stands  unmoved  amidst  the  boisterous  seas,  the 
whirlwinds  of  passion,  swelling  around  him.  He  exer 
cises  perfect  command  over  the  emotions  of  the  audi 
ence;  seems  to  hold  their  heartstrings  in  his  hands, 
to  play  upon  their  sympathies  as  on  an  instrument; 
to  electrify  or  subdue  his  hearers  by  an  effort  of  volition ; 
but  not  a  pulse  in  his  own  frame  beats  more  rapidly 
than  its  wont.  His  personations  are  cut  out  of  marble ; 
they  are  grand,  sublime,  but  no  heart  throbs  within  the 
life-like  sculpture.  Such  was  the  school  of  the  great 
Talma.  This  absolute  power  over  others,  combined 
with  perfect  self-command,  is  pronounced  by  a  certain 
class  of  critics  the  perfection  of  dramatic  art. 

I  have  acted  with  distinguished  tragedians,  who,  after 
some  magnificent  burst  of  pathos  which  seemed  wrung 
from  the  inmost  depths  of  the  soul,  while  the  audience 
were  deafening  themselves,  and  us,  with  their  frantic 
applause,  quietly  turned  to  their  brethren  with  a  comical 
grimace  and  a  few  muttered  words  of  satirical  humor 
that  caused  an  irresistible  burst  of  laughter.  Heads 
were  turned  away,  and  handkerchiefs  stuffed  into  mouths, 
but  the  "  star  of  the  goodlie  companie "  stood  rapt  in 
unconsciousness,  very  touching  to  the  audience,  but  par 
ticularly  trying  to  the  convulsed  actors. 

This  singular  faculty  of  keeping  a  "  stage  existence  " 
totally  distinct  from  the  actor's  own  personality,  has 
many  times  been  ludicrously  exhibited  to  me.  I  men 
tion  an  illustrative  occasion. 

I  was  fulfilling  an  engagement  in  one  of  the  English 


A    HUMOROUS    STRANGER.  243 

provincial  towns.  The  play  was  the  Stranger.  An  old- 
established  favorite  of  that  audience  enacted  the  Stran 
ger,  and  with  considerable  power.  It  was  the  first  night 
this  gentleman  had  assumed  an  opposite  character  to 
me.  We  had  never  exchanged  words,  except  a  cour 
teous  "  good  morning "  when  we  met  at  rehearsal,  and 
a  "  good  evening "  at  night.  The  play  had  made  a 
deep  impression  upon  the  audience.  During  the  fifth 
act,  when  Mrs.  Haller  implores  her  injured  husband  to 
allow  her  to  behold  her  children  once  more,  the  sound 
of  weeping  throughout  the  house  was  distinctly  audible 
upon  the  stage.  Mrs.  Haller  had  just  spoken  the 
words,  "  Let  me  kiss  the  features  of  their  father  in  his 
babes,  and  I  will  kneel  to  you,  and  part  with  them  for 
ever." 

The  Stranger  turned  to  raise  me  from  my  knees, 
and,  as  he  did  so,  whispered,  in  the  most  lachrymose 
voice,  u  Poor  things,  they  want  umbrellas  in  front ! " 
Then,  in  precisely  the  same  tone,  he  uttered  aloud  the 
words  of  his  part  —  "  Willingly,  Adelaide.  I  have  de 
spatched  a  servant  for  them  to  the  neighboring  village. 
He  should  be  back  by  this  time.  When  he  arrives, 
they  shall  be  conducted  to  the  castle.  They  may 
remain  with  you  until  daybreak.  Then  they  must  go 
with  me ! " 

The  sobs  of  the  audience  increased.  In  the  same 
tone  of  deep  anguish  the  Stranger  murmured,  as  he 
again  leaned  over  me,  "  It's  raining  so  fast  in  the  boxes 
that  those  poor  fellows  in  the  pit  will  catch  their  death 
of  cold.  I'd  better  send  umbrellas  round ! "  Not  a 
muscle  of  his  countenance  changed ;  his  face  retained 
its  heart-broken  expression,  and  he  sadly  and  deliber 
ately  wiped  the  supposed  tears  from  his  eyes. 


244      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

I  had  no  such  control  over  my  risible  propensities. 
I  could  only  bury  my  face  in  my  handkerchief;  but  for 
tunately  the  laughter  which  I  could  not  suppress  had  an 
hysterical  sound  not  inappropriate  to  Mrs.  Haller. 
^^s^o  amount  of  study  or  discipline  could  have  enabled 
me  to  belong  to  the  grand  and  passionless  school.  I 
never  succeeded  in  stirring  the  hearts  of  others  unless  I 
was  deeply  affected  myself.  The  putting  off  of  self- 
consciousness  was,  with  me,  the  first  imperative  element 
of  success.  Yet  I  agree  with  those  who  maintain  that 
the  highest  school  of  art  is  that  in  which  the  actor, 
Prospero-like,  raises  or  stills  tempestuous  waves  by  the 
magical  force  of  his  will  —  produces  and  controls,  with 
out  sharing,  the  emotions  of  his  audience. 

The  anecdote  I  have  just  related  is  not  the  only  ludi 
crous  one  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  play  of  the 
Stranger.  An  amusing  incident  occurred  one  night 
during  that  play's  representation  in  Savannah.  I  was 
informed  at  rehearsal  that  the  two  children,  who  usually 
appeared  as  Mrs.  Haller's  forsaken  little  ones,  were  ill. 
No  other  children  could  be  obtained.  Yet  children 
were  indispensable  adjuncts  in  the  last  scene.  The  play 
could  not  be  changed  at  such  hasty  notice.  What  could 
be  done  ? 

I  was  walking  up  and  down  behind  the  scenes,  very 
much  annoyed,  and  wondering  how  the  difficulty  could 
be  overcome,  when  the  person  who  temporarily  officiated 
as  my  dressing  maid  accosted  me.  She  was  an  exceed 
ingly  pretty  mulatto  girl.  She  saw  that  I  was  distressed 
about  the  absent  children,  and,  with  a  great  deal  of  hes 
itation,  offered  to  supply  the  deficiency.  I  brightened 
at  the  prospective  deliverance  from  our  dilemma,  and, 
telling  her  that  I  would  be  much  obliged,  inquired  to 
whom  the  children  belonged. 


MRS.    HALLER  S    COLORED    DESCENDANTS.       245 

"  They  are  mine,  ma'am,"  she  answered,  timidly.  "  I 
have  a  couple  of  pretty  little  ones  very  much  at  your 
service." 

"  Yours  ?  "  I  answered,  aghast  at  the  information. 
"Yours?  Why,  Mrs.  Haller's  children  are  supposed 
to  be  white.  I  am  afraid  yours  won't  very  readily  pass 
for  mine ; "  and  I  could  hardly  help  laughing  at  the 
supposition. 

The  young  woman  took  my  distressed  merriment 
good  naturedly,  and  replied,  "  O,  my  children  are  not 
very  black,  seeing  as  how  their  father  is  altogether 
white ! " 

"  Do  you  really  think  they  would  pass  for  white 
children?" 

';  Why,  the  little  girl  has  blue  eyes,  and  they  have 
both  got  hair  nearly  as  light  as  yours ;  then  you  might 
powder  them  up  a  bit,  if  you  thought  best." 

I  sent  her  for  the  children.  They  were  really  lovely 
little  creatures,  with  clear,  cream-colored  complexions, 
and  hair  that  fell  in  showers  of  waving  ringlets.  I  de 
cided  at  once  that  they  would  do,  and  told  her  to  bring 
them'  at  night  in  their  prettiest  dresses,  to  which  I 
would  add  any  needful  additions. 

The  children  do  not  make  their  appearance  until  the 
last  act.  After  retouching  their  toilets,  instructing  them 
in  what  they  had  to  do,  and  feeding  them  with  sugar 
plums,  I  told  their  mother  to  make  them  a  bed  with 
shawls  in  the  corner  of  my  dressing  room.  She  did  so, 
and  they  slept  quietly  through  four  acts  of  the  play. 
We  gently  awakened  them  for  the  fifth  act.  But  their 
sleep  was  too  thoroughly  the  sweet,  deep  slumber  of 
happy  childhood  to  be  easily  dispelled.  With  great  diffi 
culty  I  made  them  comprehend  where  they  were,  and 


246       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS.       • 

what  they  must  do.  Even  a  fresh  supply  of  sugar  plums 
failed  to  entirely  arouse  them.  The  sleepy  heads  would 
drop  upon  their  pretty,  round  shoulders,  and  they  de 
voured  the  bonbons  with  closed  eyes. 

The  curtain  had  risen,  and  the  children  must  appear 
upon  the  stage.  I  led  them  to  the  wing,  and  gave 
them  in  charge  of  Francis.  Francis  walked  on.  the 
stage,  holding  a  child  in  each  hand.  The  trio  had 
hardly  made  their  appearance  when  the  little  girl, 
thoroughly  awakened  by  the  dazzling  light,  gave  one 
frightened  look  at  the  audience,  broke  away  from  Fran 
cis,  and,  shrieking  loudly,  rushed  up  and  down  the 
stage,  trying  to  find  some  avenue  through  which  she 
might  escape.  The  audience  shouted  with  laughter, 
and  the  galleries  applauded  the  sport.  The  poor  little 
girl  grew  more  and  more  bewildered.  Francis  pursued 
her,  dragging  her  brother  after  him.  The  unexpected 
exercise,  added  to  his  sister's  continued  cries,  alarmed 
the  boy.  He  screamed  in  concert,  and,  after  some 
desperate  struggles,  obtained  his  liberty.  Francis  had 
now  both  children  to  chase  about  the  stage.  The  boy 
he  soon  captured  and  caught  up  under  his  arm,  con 
tinuing  his  flight  after  the  girl.  She  was  finally  secured. 
The  children,  according  to  stage  direction,  are  to  be 
taken  through  a  little  cottage  door  on  the  left  of  the 
stage.  Francis,  panting  with  his  exertions,  dragged 
them  to  the  door,  which  he  pushed  open  with  his  foot. 
The  struggling  children  looked  in  terror  at  the  cottage. 
They  fancied  it  was  the  guard  house,  in  which  colored 
persons  are  liable  to  be  confined  if  they  are  found  in  the 
streets  after  a  certain  hour  without  a  "  pass." 

Clinging  to  Francis,  they  cried  out  together,  "O, 
don't  ee  put  me  in  ee  guard  house  !  Don't  ee  put  me 
in  ee  guard  house !  " 


STAGE   ILLUSION   DISPELLED.  247 

The  accent  peculiar  to  their  race,  and  their  allusion 
to  the  "  guard  house,"  at  once  betrayed  to  the  audience 
their  parentage.  The  whole  house  broke  forth  into  an 
uproar  of  merriment.  Francis  disappeared,  but  the 
audience  could  not  be  quieted. 

I  was  suffering  not  a  little  at  the  contemplated  im 
possibility  of  producing  the  children  at  the  end  of  the 
play.  But  nobody  cared  to  listen  to  another  line. 
Mrs.  Haller's  colored  children  had  unceremoniously 
destroyed  every  vestige  of  illusion.  I  made  my  suppli 
cation  to  "  kiss  the  features  of  the  father  in  his  babes  " 
in  the  most  suppressed  tone  possible,  yet  the  request 
produced  a  fresh  burst  of  laughter.  We  hurried  the 
play  to  a  close.  The  entrance  of  the  children,  and  the 
excitement  produced  upon  the  parents  by  their  pres 
ence,  we  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  spectators.  The 
play  ended  without  the  reappearance  of  the  juvenile 
unfortunates. 

A  few  evenings  previous  to  this  comical  incident, 
another  of  a  precisely  opposite  character  took  place  in 
Charleston.  The  play  was  the  same.  I  mention  the 
anecdote  because  the  morality  of  the  Stranger  is  by 
many  persons  considered  dubious.  I  think  this  relation 
proves  that,  in  a  mixed  audience,  there  are  sometimes 
beings  upon  whom  the  representation  of  Kotzebue's  con 
demned  play  may  have  a  beneficial  influence.  "While 
I  was  delivering  the  speech  in  which  Mrs.  Haller  con 
fesses  her  crime,  the  audience  were  startled  by  a  sud 
den  shriek.  The  very  sound  proclaimed  that  it  had 
been  wrung  involuntarily  from  some  conscience-stricken 
heart.  A  confusion  in  the  dress  circle  ensued.  Then 
followed  hysterical  sobs  and  screams,  and  a  lady  was 
carried  by  her  friends  from  the  theatre. 


248      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  next  morning  a  gentleman  called  upon  me,  and 
related  the  history  of  the  lady  whose  agitation  had  dis 
turbed  the  equanimity  of  the  audience.  She  was  taken 
home  in  a  state  of  excitement  bordering  on  frenzy,  and 
confessed  that  she  had  been  on  the  eve  of  bringing 
upon  herself  the  lifelong  miseries  endured  by  Mrs. 
Haller.  I  do  not  feel  at  liberty  to  dwell  upon  the  par 
ticulars  of  the  story,  but  the  sequel  proved  that  the  rep 
resentation  of  the  Stranger  was  instrumental  in  saving 
at  least  one  frail  being  from  becoming 

"  Like  stars  that  fall  to  rise  no  more." 

Our  engagement  in  Charleston,  during  this  my  first 
season  on  the  stage,  was  of  long  duration,  and  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  succession  of  prosperous  reengagements. 
The  theatre  was  under  the  able  management  of  Mr. 
Forbes.  I  became  very  much  attached  to  this  warm, 
southern  audience. 

When  we  were  about  to  leave,  I  was  solicited  to  de 
liver  an  address  to  the  Charleston  volunteers,  in  com 
memoration  of  their  departure  for  Mexico.  I  think 
they  were  styled  the  Palmetto  Guard.  The  occasion 
has  left  a  deep  impression  on  my  memory.  The  stage 
represented  the  signing  of  the  Declaration  of  Independ 
ence.  The  figures  of  the  signers  were  startlingly  life 
like,  and  stood  apart  every  one  from  the  other.  Amongst 
them  was  niy  mother's  grandfather,  Francis  Lewis. 
As  the  curtain  rose,  the  Star-spangled  Banner  was 
sung  by  the  company.  They  retired  at  its  close,  and  I 
came  forward  from  the  back  of  the  scene,  passing  in  and 
out  amongst  the  fathers  of  our  country,  until  I  stood  in 
their  centre.  The  address,  by  J.  A.  Requier,  Esq., 
was  a  stirring  production.  At  the  lines,  — 


ADDRESS  TO  CHARLESTON  VOLUNTEERS.   249 

"  Remember  the  deeds  that  your  sires  have  done, 
Remember  the  worship  your  sires  have  won, 
Remember  the  present  must  soon  be  a  past, 
And  strike  like  your  sires  —  they  struck  to  the  last !  "  — 

when  I  pointed  to  the  glorious  host  so  admirably  repre 
sented  around  me,  the  excited  volunteers  started  simul 
taneously  from  their  seats.  It  was  long  before  their 
hurricane  of  responsive  cheers  would  permit  the  address 
to  proceed. 

In  less  than  a  week  they  departed,  at  the  call  of  their 
country,  on  that  expedition  from  which  so  few  of  the 
brave  soldiers  returned.  In  the  words  of  the  address, — 

"  Her  voice  bade  them  come  with  the  steel  and  the  targe, 
To  stand  at  the  onset  and  strike  at  the  charge  !  "  — 

and  perhaps  some  of  them  remembered  the  assurance 
that  the  prayers  of  woman 

"  Shall  watch  o'er  ye  now ; 

Her  myrtles  shall  blossom  —  a  braid  on  your  brow  ; 
And  her  tears  shall  be  brighter,  her  blushes  more  sweet, 
To  emblazon  success,  or  to  soften  defeat." 

Our  engagement  in  Savannah  was  also  under  the 
management  of  Mr.  Forbes.  It  was  one  upon  which  I 
look  back  with  unmingled  pleasure.  At  its  close  a 
committee  of  gentlemen,  formed  of  the  most  distinguished 
residents,  gave  us  a  magnificent  entertainment  in  token 
of  their  esteem.  I  record,  with,  I  hope,  a  justifiable 
pride,  the  following  extract  from  their  note  of  invi 
tation  :  — 

"  We  take  this  method  of  at  once  expressing  our 
thanks  for  the  exquisite  enjoyment  you  have  afforded 
us  in  your  various  personations,  and  our  high  respect 
for  you  personally.  A  lady  of  your  character  and 
attainments  elevates  and  adorns  the  stage ;  and  we  have 


250      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

no  doubt  that  your  influence  will  be  widely  felt  in  puri 
fying  it  from  the  abuses  which  sometimes  mar  its  beau 
ties,  and  that  you  will  cause  it  to  perform  its  proper 
task  — 

'  To  raise  the  genius  and  to  mend  the  heart.' 

"  Accept,  madam,  the  assurance  of  our  most  distin 
guished  regard,  and  believe  that  in  no  city  will  you 
have  more  ardent  admirers  and  warmer  friends  than 
in  ours." 

Fashion  was  produced  at'  Charleston,  and  after 
wards  at  Mobile  and  New  Orleans,  with  its  usual  good 
fortune.  To  be  forced  to  enact  the  walking-lady 
character  of  Gertrude  was  a  severe  punishment,  To 
escape  its  infliction,  I  always  withheld  the  production 
of  the  comedy  until  the  solicitations  of  the  public  and 
the  managers  left  me  no  alternative.  Could  I  have 
foreseen,  at  the  time  the  play  was  written,  that  I  should 
be  induced  to  enter  the  profession,  I  would  have  been 
careful  to  create  a  character  which  I  could  imbody 
with  pleasure.  Yet  it  was  a  very  few  months  after 
Fashion  first  appeared  that  I  made  my  own  debut. 

The  public  continued  to  entertain  a  strong  desire  that 
I  should  be  supported  upon  the  stage  by  one  of  my  own 
countrymen.  A  committee  of  gentlemen  waited  upon 
Mr.  Mowatt,  in  New  Orleans,  to  request  that  some 
arrangement  might  be  entered  into  with  Mr.  Murdoch 
to  play  opposite  characters  with  me.  Our  contract 
with  Mr.  C prevented  the  gratification  of  these  gen 
tlemen's  wishes.  I  proposed  that  we  should  select  plays 

in  which  Mr.  Murdoch  and  Mr.  C could  both  appear 

in  parts  of  equal  importance.  An  attempt  was  made  to 
carry  out  the  suggestion;  but  only  one  or  two  plays 


RELATIONSHIP  OF  ACTORS  TO  EACH  OTHER.   251 

could  be  agreed  upon,  and  the   idea  was   necessarily 
abandoned. 

One  amongst  the  many  appearances  in  the  profes 
sion  which  are  misunderstood  by  the  public  is  the 
relationship  which  exists  between  actor  and  actor.  The 
world,  in  general,  cannot  readily  comprehend  the  total 
absence  of  all  personal  affinity,  and  at  times  of  all  ami 
cable  feeling,  between  them.  When  an  audience  are  in 
the  habit  of  seeing  two  persons  frequently  represent 
the  characters  of  romantic  lovers,  —  enthusiastic  hus 
band  and  wife,  or  devoted  father  and  daughter,  —  they 
imagine  that  some  slight  degree  of  attachment  must 
spring  up  between  the  parties  —  that  the  gentleman 
entertains  at  least  a  warm  admiration  for  the  lady. 
But,  in  reality,  performers  are  constantly  placed  in  the 
most  affectionate  stage  relationship  towards  those  whom 
they  personally  detest.  The  bitterest  enemies  enact 
Damon  and  Pythias  with  a  fervor  that  cheats  specta 
tors  into  the  belief  that  some  bond  must  draw  them 
intimately  together  in  the  walks  of  private  life. 

It  is  related  of  an  actress,  who  lived  unhappily  with 
her  husband,  that  she  delighted  in  personating  the  lov 
ing  Belvidera  to  his  Jaffier,  because  it  gave  her  an 
opportunity  of  inflicting  certain  feminine  punishments 
upon  him  during  the  apparently  tender  embraces  of  the 
Venetian  pair.  I  have  faith  in  the  story. 

In  the  course  of  one  long  engagement,  I  nightly 
enacted  the  betrothed  —  the  wife,  or  the  daughter  —  of 
a  gentleman  with  whom  Mr.  Mowatt  was  at  variance 
and  to  whom  I  never  spoke.  Any  needful  communica 
tion  at  rehearsal  was  addressed  to  the  prompter.  At 
night,  before  the  audience,  he  was  the  most  impassioned 


252       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

of  knights,  and  I  the  tenderest  of  "ladie  loves"  — 
but  one  single  step  without  the  magic  circle  of  the  foot 
lights,  and  we  were  utter  strangers.  Nor  was  this  cool 
ness  the  subject  of  surprise  or  remark  behind  the 
scenes.  It  was  an  every-day  occurrence  in  all  theatres. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

t 

Mr.  Davenport. — Accident  in  Baltimore.  —  Second  Southern  Tour 

—  Reading   at   Macon.  —  Columbus. — Montgomery.  —  First  Ac 
quaintance  with  Henry  Clay.  —  His  Recollections  of  Miss  O'Xeil.  — 
His  poetical  Obliciousness. —  Fire  Days  on  board  of  the  Alexander 
Scott. —  Clay's  Injunction  to  me  as  ice  passed  Memphis.  —  Mr. 
Davenport's  Entertainment  of  Mr.  Clay.  — Personation  of  a  "  Dmcn- 
east"  Yankee.  —  Impromptu  Song  to  Henry   Clay. — Arrival  at 
Louisville.  —  A   last    Farewell.  —  Opening  of  the  Athen&v.m  at 
Cincinnati.  —  Inaugural  Address.  —  Compliment  to  Mr.  Davenport. 

—  Close  of  my  second  Year  on  the  Stage. — Armand.  —  A  Sister 
hood  of  Critics.  —  Mr.  Moicatfs  Visit  to  England  to  arrange  with 
Managers.  —  Mr.  Macready's  Advice.  —  Engagement  for  Manches 
ter. —  Production  of  Armand  at  the  Park  Theatre  and  in  Boston. 

—  Last  Night  in  America.  — Letters  from  Henry  Clay.  —  Sailing 
for  Europe. 

Mr  engagements  for  the  first  year  concluded  at  New 

Orleans.  Our  contract  with  Mr.  C ,  which  then 

came  to  an  end,  was  not  renewed. 

Edward  L.  Davenport,  of  Boston,  was  strongly  recom 
mended  to  Mr.  Mowatt  by  old  and  leading  members  of 
the  profession.  His  high  moral  character,  his  unassum 
ing  and  gentleman-like  manners,  his  wonderful  versa 
tility  and  indisputable  talents,  caused  him  to  be  selected 
as  the  person  who  was  to  travel  with  us  during  my 
second  year  on  the  stage.  Upon  this  selection,  every 
succeeding  month  and  year  gave  us  new  cause  for  con 
gratulation.  The  prominent  position  he  has  since  won 
upon  the  English  stage,  and  the  honors  he  has  received 
from  fastidious  Engk'sh  audiences,  are  the  just  reward 

(253) 


254      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

of  intrinsic  but  most  unostentatious  merit.  The  Ameri 
can  public  were  doubly  satisfied  with  the  choice  made 
of  a  professional  associate,  because  Mr.  Davenport  is 
a  countryman. 

We  commenced  our  theatrical  tour  at  Buffalo,  and 
made  the  whole  circuit  of  the  United  States.  Another 
prosperous  year  crowned  our  exertions.  Our  engage 
ments  had  but  one  interruption.  That  was  occasioned 
by  an  accident  which  I  unfortunately  met  with  while 
performing  in  Baltimore. 

The  play  was  the  Honey  Moon,  in  three  acts. 
Juliana  has  several  rapid  changes  of  costume  to  effect. 
When  I  left  the  stage  to  dress  for  the  last  time,  I  darted 
off  at  full  speed  towards  my  dressing  room.  The  lights 
behind  the  scenes  were  unusually  dim.  A  sofa  had 
carelessly  been  left  in  one  of  the  passages.  Some  tired 
carpenter  was  stretched  upon  it  in  an  attitude  which 
Dickens  would  have  described  as  peculiarly  American. 
His  feet  protmded  over  one  arm  of  the  sofa  in  a  some 
what  more  elevated  position  than  his  head.  My  flight 
brought  me  suddenly  in  contact  with  a  pair  of  heavy 
boots.  The  blow  received  was  so  severe  that  I  stag 
gered  back,  and  fell.  I  had  not  time  to  think  whether 
or  not  I  was  injured.  An  actor  is  always  impressed 
with  the  conviction  that  he  has  no  right  to  private  suf 
ferings  or  emotions  during  a  performance.  I  dressed 
hastily,  and  returned  to  the  stage.  The  instant  I  began 
to  speak  I  experienced  a  choking  sensation,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  I  could  give  utterance  to  the  neces 
sary  words.  I  struggled  on  until  the  middle  of  the 
scene,  and  then  was  forced  to  whisper  to  Mr.  Daven 
port,  who  enacted  the  Duke,  "  Cut  the  scene  —  I  can't 
speak ! "  He  imagined  that  I  was  suddenly  taken  ill, 


ACCIDENT  AT  BALTIMORE.          255 

and  did  " cut  the  scene"  We  both,  in  stage  parlance, 
"came  to  cues"  —  most  remorselessly  mangling  the 
author.  The  play,  nevertheless,  seemed  interminable, 
and  when  it  ended  I  was  forced  to  respond  to  the  call 
before  the  curtain,  though  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I 
could  stand. 

We  had  scarcely  reached  home  when  the  effect  of 
the  blow  became  apparent.  A  blood  vessel  had  been 
ruptured,  and  I  was  nearly  suffocated  with  the  san 
guineous  stream  that  poured  from  my  lips.  According 
to  my  physician's  opinion,  the  rupture  took  place  at  the 
time  the  blow  was  received,  and  I  had  been  enabled  to 
keep  back  the  evidence  of  the  injury  through  a  strong 
effort  of  will.  This  is  only  one  of  the  myriad  instances 
that  could  be  given  to  prove  what  an  actor  can  endure 
under  the  excitement  of  representation. 

I  was,  of  course,  unable  to  conclude  my  engagement, 
but  this  was  the  first  I  had  ever  broken.  For  a  few  days 
it  was  supposed  that  the  injury  was  serious,  but  through 
the  help  of  a  vigorous  constitution  it  proved  otherwise. 
In  a  fortnight  I  was  able  to  travel  to  Boston,  and  ap 
peared  as  Juliet  —  a  part  which  requires  a  superabun 
dant  amount  of  physical  strength. 

Early  in  the  autumn  of  this  second  year  we  com 
menced  our  journey  south.  We  acted  in  all  the  prin 
cipal  theatres  until  we  reached  Macon,  on  our  way  to 
Mobile.  No  theatre  had  yet  been  erected  there,  and 
we  were  solicited  to  give  readings.  I  read  one  night  to 
a  full  audience,  and  Mr.  Davenport  diversified  the  en 
tertainment  with  songs.  In  Columbus  we  devoted  an 
other  night,  and  another  in  Montgomery,  to  readings, 
intermingled  with  Mr.  Davenport's  ballad  singing.  I 
greatly  preferred  the  theatre  to  the  lecture  room,  and 


256       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

resolutely  refused  all  solicitation  to  give  a  course  of 
readings.  In  the  lecture  room  I  missed  the  friendly 
footlights,  which  form  a  barrier  between  the  real  and 
ib.i  ideal.  I  longed  for  the  illusion  —  the  self-forget- 
fulness.  On  the  stage  I  was  somebody  else  —  in  the 
lecture  room  I  could  not  rise  out  of  myself. 

Amongst  the  most  agreeable  reminiscences  of  this 
year  are  the  visits  o£  IJenrj^Clay.  We  were  fulfilling 
an  engagement  in  New  Orleans  when  he  first  called 
upon  me.  It  chanced  that  my  history  was  well  known 
to  him.  He  took  a  deep  interest  in  my  professional 
exertions,  and  his  encouragement  was  not  sparingly 
bestowed.  One  day  he  gave  me  a  glowing  description 
of  Miss  O'Neil's  Juliet,  especially  of  the  naivete  and  fer 
vor  of  her  balcony  scene.  But  when  he  attempted  to 
quote  the  passages  which  had  impressed  him,  I  could 
not  help  laughing  involuntarily  at  his  odd  deviations 
from  the  text. 

" I  dare  say  I  am  misquoting"  he  remarked,  apolo 
getically.  "  I  never  could  remember  a  line  of  poetry." 

I  had  to  admit  that  his  version  of  Juliet  differed  con 
siderably  from  the  one  which  popular  prejudice  had 
adopted  —  nor  could  I  natter  him  by  saying  that  he 
improved  upon  Shakspeare. 

He  then  told  me  that  it  was  a  singular  fact,  and  one 
which  had  been  a  subject  of  regret  through  his  whole 
life,  that  he  could  not  by  any  effort  retain  verse  in  his 
memory.  Even  if  he  studied  a  poem  by  rote,  in  a  few 
days  the  lines  would  be  wholly  effaced  from  the  mental 
tablet  on  which  they  had  been  laboriously  written.  He 
related  to  me  an  anecdote  in  painful  illustration  of  this 
peculiarity.  He  was  making  some  public  address,  —  I 
think  it  was  a  Fourth  of  July  oration,  —  during  the 


course  of  which  he  purposed   quoting  the  well-known 

lines,  — 

"  Lives  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 
"Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ?  " 

Declaiming  warmly,  he  gave  enthusiastic  utterance  to 
the  line, — 

"  Lives  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead." 

But  the  poetic  page  suddenly  became  a  blank  —  he 
could  not  remember  another  word.  He  paused  —  then 
repeated  the  line  with  more  patriotic  ardor  than  before. 
He  thought  the  second  line  would  "come  to  him"  by 
means  of  the  repetition  —  but  it  came  not.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  trying  to  think  what  the  man  did 
"•  whose  soul  was  so  dead "  —  but  the  evidence  of  that 
individual's  torpid  essence  would  not  develop  itself  in 
metre.  For  the  third  time  he  asked  the  question  em 
phatically,  not  to  say  despairingly,  — 

"  Lives  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead,"  — 

and  must  have  paused  mid  way  in  his  query,  had  not  a 
voice  from  the  crowd  continued,  in  a  stage  whisper,  — 

"  Who  never  to  himself  hath  said." 

The  oblivious  statesman  caught  the  words,  and  thank 
fully  finished  his  quotation.  He  determined,  in  future, 
to  ornament  his  orations  with  few  of  these  slippery 
gems  of  the  poet. 

Oar  next  engagement  took  us  to  Vicksburg,  but  at 
its  close  we  rejoined  Henry  Clay  on  board  of  the  Alex 
ander  Scott.  We  passed  five  days  in  this  floating  palace 
on  our  way  to  Louisville.  Henry  Clay  was  cheered 
wherever  we  stopped,  and  answering  cheers  were  sent 
17 


258       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

back  from  the  boat.  In  these  the  ladies  now  and  then 
joined. 

I  was  standing  beside  him  when  we  arrived  at  Mem 
phis.  He  turned  to  me,  and  said,  "  Have  you  ever  ap 
peared  here  ?  " 

I  replied  in  the  negative. 

He  remarked,  "  This  western  Memphis  makes  more 
gigantic  progress  than  any  town  I  know.  She  will  be 
the  queen  city  of  the  west  by  and  by.  Never  pass 
here  again  without  appearing." 

I  answered  that  I  would  not.  It  was  six  years  before 
I  saw  Memphis  once  more ;  but  I  kept  my  word.  My 
appearance  was  rendered  a  brief  one  through  sudden 
indisposition.  I  remember  with  regret  the  improbability 
that  I  shall  ever  stand  before  a  genial  Memphis  audi 
ence  again. 

Henry  Clay  passed  a  large  portion  of  his  time  in  the 
ladies'  saloon.  The  bearing  of  our  lofty-minded  states 
man,  though  always  dignified,  was  characterized  by 
extremest  courtesy  —  courtesy  to  the  lowest  as  well  as 
the  highest.  He  conversed  freely  upon  all  subjects,  and 
with  the  fluency  for  which  he  was  distinguished. 

"  Aged  ears  played  truant  with  his  tales, 
And  younger  hearings  were  quite  ravished 
With  his  discourse." 

We  were  one  day  discussing  Lafayette's  visit  to 
this  country.  Some  jocular  estimate  was  made  of  the 
number  of  ladies  whom  he  had  affectionately  saluted. 
Clay  remarked,  that  "  kissing  was  like  the  presidency ; 
it  was  not  to  be  sought,  and  not  to  be  declined"  The 
natural  inference  from  this  remark  was,  that  he  would 
not  oppose  the  wishes  of  his  party  if  they  again  offered 
his  name  as  a  presidential  candidate.  The  conclusion 
did  not  prove  erroneous. 


THE  "  DOWN-EAST  "  TJLXKEE.  259 

He  recounted  to  me  a  number  of  anecdotes  illustra 
tive  of  the  manner  in  which  his  friends  demonstrated 
their  grief  at  the  great  whig  defeat  Some  of  the  most 
pathetic  of  these  stories  had  still  a  touch  of  the  ludi 
crous  ;  but  he  seemed  to  feel  most  deeply  the  manifesta 
tions  of  attachment  of  which  he  was  the  object. 

Many  of  the  passengers  exerted  themselves  to  enter 
tain  a  fellow-traveller  whom  every  one  seemed  to  treat 
as  his  own  particular  and  honored  guest;  but  none 
contributed  so  largely  to  his  amusement  as  Mr.  Daven 
port.  He  sang  comic,  patriotic,  and  sentimental  songs, 
and  recited  humorous  sketches,  in  which  five  or  six  dif 
ferent  characters  were  personated.  One  evening  he 
entered  the  saloon  disguised  as  a  u  down-east  "  Yankee. 
I  must  say,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  that  his  Yankee  was 
a  stage  representative  of  Yankee  land  —  a  broad  but 
telling  caricature  of  the  reality.  He  wore  a  red  wig, 
striped  pantaloons  that  maintained  a  respectable  dis 
tance  from  his  ancles,  a  short  jacket,  and  a  flame-colored 
cravat.  He  carried  his  hands  deeply  thrust  in  his 
pockets,  as  though  they  had  an  evident  inclination  to 
approach  his  knees.  His  "jog-along"  gait  could  only 
have  originated  in  New  England. 

He  was  not  recognized  when  he  entered  the  cabin. 
The  passengers  supposed  him  to  be  some  person  who 
had  just  come  on  board.  He  commenced  talking,  with 
a  nasal  intonation,  in  a  loud  and  familiar  manner,  and 
asking  ;;  oceans  of  questions."  He  gave  Mr.  Mowatt 
(who  was  in  the  secret)  a  nudge,  and  accosted  him 
with,  «  Stranger,  I  hear  that* s  Harry  Clay ;  I  guess  m 
scrape  acquaintance  with  him,  if  you'll  do  the  polite 
thing." 

Mr.  Mowatt  presented  the  Yankee  gentleman  to  Mr. 


260      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Clay.  The  impudent  speeches  of  the  "  downeaster  "  to 
the  "  best  representative  of  republican  royalty,"  as  the 
Yankee  designated  the  statesman,  convulsed  the  passen 
gers  with  laughter.  Mr.  Clay  joined  in  the  contagious 
merriment.  Dreading  that  these  personalities  might 
give,  offence,  I  took  occasion  to  whisper  to  him  the 
Yankee's  history,  and  the  name  which  he  inherited 
from  his  father.  Mr.  Clay  heartily  lent  himself  to  the 
joke. 

On  the  day  that  we  reached  Louisville,  the  passen 
gers  requested  me  to  present  our  eminent  countryman 
with  some  poetical  tribute  in  commemoration  of  our 
journey.  I  wrote  an  impromptu  song,  which  was  set 
to  music  by  Mr.  Davenport,  and  sung  by  him  when  the 
passengers  assembled  in  the  cabin  to  take  farewell  of 
the  statesman. 

Mr.  Clay  made  a  point  of  publicly  and  very  gracious 
ly  thanking  Mr.  Davenport  for  the  genuine  diversion 
his  talents  had  afforded  us  all.  He  wrote  in  his  pocket 
book  a  few  kind  and  complimentary  lines,  of  which  the 
gratified  actor  might  well  be  proud. 

We  were  stepping  on  shore,  when  Mr.  Clay  came 
up  to  me,  and  said,  "I  have  just  been  very  much 
touched.  You  know  the  owners  and  officers  of  this 
boat  are  all  democrats  ;  yet  they  have  refused  to  take 
any  fare  for  me  or  my  party.  I  don't  know  when  a 
trifling  circumstance  has  moved  me  so  much."  The 
tears  were  standing  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

I  received  two  visits  from  him  during  the  day  we 
were  in  Louisville.  He  then  travelled  to  Lexington, 
and  we  took  the  steamboat  to  Cincinnati.  We  ex 
changed  several  letters  after  this,  and  I  had  many  evi 
dences  that  his  interest  remained  unabated  ;  but  we 


CINCINNATI.  261 

never  met  again.  The  next  time  I  visited  Louisville, 
my  drawing-room  window  in  the  hotel  was  decked  in 
remembrance  of  Henry  Clay ;  for  his  funeral  proces 
sion  was  passing  through  the  streets. 

Mr.  Davenport  and  myself  had  never  appeared  in 
Cincinnati.  We  were  engaged  to  open  the  Athenas- 
um.  The  manager  had  nobly  determined  to  banish 
from  this  theatre  all  the  abuses  that  degrade  the  drama. 
The  public  gave  him  their  hearty  cooperation.  No  in 
augural  address  had  been  prepared.  I  was  expected 
to  deliver  one,  and  the  manager  coolly  informed  me 
that  he  presumed,  of  course,  I  would  write  it  myself. 
It  wanted  but  two  days  of  the  opening  of  the  theatre, 
and  the  address  had  not  only  to  be  composed,  but  com 
mitted  to  memory.  It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  an 
author  can  remember  the  language  of  another  person 
with  far  greater  ease  than  his  own.  I  accomplished  my 
forced  task,  and  by  an  emphatic  delivery  made  the 
most  of  what  I  had  written ;  but  no  applause  could  com 
pensate  me  for  the  nervous  miseries  incident  upon  rapid 
composition,  quick  study,  and  the  compulsatory  utter 
ance  of  one's  own  consciously  crude  thoughts.  The 
house  was  opened  under  the  most  propitious  auspices. 
Those  were  palmy  days  for  the  Athenasum.  Ree'n- 
gagement  followed  reengagement,  and  the  seats  (there 
were  no  boxes)  were  nightly  crowded  with  a  class  of 
the  community  who  had  never  before  been  seen  within 
the  walls  of  a  theatre. 

Mr.  Davenport  became  an  especial  favorite.  On  the 
day  of  his  departure  he  was  presented,  by  the  young 
men  of  the  city,  with  a  gold  watch  and  chain  ;  the  for 
mer  bearing  a  complimentary  inscription. 

This  engagement  closed  my  second  year  upon  the. 


262      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTKESS. 

stage  —  a  year  as  eminently  successful,  and  more  replete 
with  happiness  than  the  first.  I  had  gained  mental  and 
physical  strength ;  improved  in  health ;  become  inured 
to  the  thousand  desagremens,  the  discomforts,  the  end 
less  vexations,  and  unavoidable  fatigues  of  the  pro 
fession  ;  and  I  had  watched  the  frown  of  disapproval 
slowly  melting  away  from  faces  that  I  loved,  and  the 
benignest  of  smiles  dawning  in  its  place. 

Every  actress  who  gains  celebrity  is  tolerably  sure 
of  being  courted  and  feted,  inundated  with  poems,  com 
plimentary  letters,  flowers,  rich  gifts.  These  things 
^  seem  to  be  the  inevitable  consequences  —  I  might  say 
the  conventional  accessories  —  of  her  public  position. 
But  if  her  sorrows  have  taught  her  to  distinguish  tinsel 
from  gold,  these  hollow  evidences  of  mere  popularity 
can  afford  little  real,  little  internal  satisfaction. 
\/  If  she  has  tasted  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  been  gifted  with  dearly-bought  insight  into  realities, 
she  knows  that  those  who  lavish  these  gifts  and  bestow 
these  favors  are  oftener  actuated  by  self-love  than  by 
love  of  her.  They  bow  to  the  rising  star  because  its 
effulgence  is  reflected  back  upon  its  votaries. 

This  is  a  bitter  lesson  for  prosperity  to  teach ;  but, 
like  other  bitters,  it  possesses  restorative  virtues.  It  is 
the  wholesome  tonic  that  reinvigorates  the  spirit  which 
flatteries  debilitate. 

At  the  close  of  this  second  professional  year,  Mr. 
Mowatt  sailed  for  Europe  to  make  arrangements  with 
'  London  managers  for  our  appearance  in  the  English 
metropolis.  I  returned  to  that  roof  where  I  was  n\ost 
certain  of  passing  peaceful  and  happy  days  —  my 
father's ! 

During   this   summer   I  wrote  Armand,  a  five-act 


FEMININE    CRITICS.  263 

drama.  The  play  was  engaged  by  the  manager  of  the 
Park  Theatre,  and  a  time  fixed  for  its  production,  before 
a  line  had  been  written.  The  plot  is  not  strictly  his 
torical,  but  it  has  some  slight  historical  foundation. 
The  part  of  Armand  was,  professionally  speaking,  meas 
ured  for  Mr.  Davenport,  and  suited  to  his  vigorous  and 
impulsive  style  of  acting.  Blanche  I  designed  to  per 
sonate  myself. 

Every  scene,  as  it  was  completed,  I  read  aloud  to  a 
little  circle  of  feminine  critics.  They  were  my  sisters, 
most  of  whom  had  been  gathered  from  their  scattered 
homes  to  greet  the  one  amongst  their  number  who  had 
for  two  years  been  a  wanderer.  Their  critical  acumen 
was,  of  course,  tempered  by  considerable  leniency ;  but 
the  critic's  prerogative  was  not  wholly  abandoned. 
Sometimes  they  savagely  condemned  a  situation,  or  in 
sisted  that  a  passage  should  be  wholly  expunged ;  and, 
now  and  then,  they  pertinaciously  objected  to  laugh  or 
weep  at  the  expected  moment.  I  generally  adopted 
their  suggestions  ;  but,  assuming  an  air  of  mock  dignity, 
I  seldom  failed  to  remind  the  exulting  denunciators 
that  Moliere  was  guided  by  the  opinions  of  his  washer 
woman. 

Mr.  Mowatt  consulted  with  Mr.  Macready.  Mr. 
Macready  thought  it  impolitic  for  my  first  appearance 
to  be  made  in  London.  The  provincial  theatres,  he 
said,  were  the  seminaries  of  the  London  institutions. 
If  an  actor  obtained  decided  celebrity  in  the  provinces, 
he  would,  as  a  matter  of  course,  receive  advantageous 
offers  from  London  managers.  Mr.  Macready  pro 
posed  that  I  should  play  a  round  of  engagements  in  the 
English  provinces,  and  wait  until  my  abilities  had  been 
fully  tested  and  I  had  received  a  summons  to  London. 


264      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Mr.  Mowatt  was  convinced  of  the  wisdom  of  his  advice, 
and  entered  into  an  engagement  with  Mr.  Knowles, 
manager  of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Manchester,  for  the  ap 
pearance  of  Mr.  Davenport  and  myself  on  the  7th  of 
December,  1847. 

Armand  was  completed  shortly  after  Mr.  Mow- 
att's  return  to  this  country,  and  was  produced  at  the 
Park  Theatre  September  27,  1847.  The  Broadway 
Theatre,  then  just  completed,  opened  on  the  same  night, 
and  offered  a  strong  counter  attraction;  yet  the  new 
play  drew  a  full  audience  to  the  Park.  Mr.  Davenport's 
personation  of  Armand  gained  him  fresh  laurels. 
I  was  too  nervous,  and  too  much  tormented  with  anx 
ieties  for  the  success  of  the  play,  to  imbody  the  char 
acter  of  Blanche  to  my  own  satisfaction.  But  none 
could  know,  as  I  myself  knew,  how  far  my  representa 
tion  fell  short  of  my  own  creation.  The  success  of 
Fashion  had  prepared  the  audience  to  receive  Ar 
mand  with  marked  favor.  As  the  curtain  dropped 
upon  the  fifth  act,  a  heavy  weight  of  doubt  and  respon 
sibility  fell  from  my  heart.  Judgment  had  been  passed 
upon  the  new  candidate  for  popular  approval,  and  I  had 
cause  to  rejoice  at  the  verdict. 

The  play  was  acted  every  night  until  the  close  of  our 
engagement.  Immediately  afterwards  it  was  produced 
in  Boston,  and  received  with  unequivocal  warmth.  This 
Boston  engagement  was  our  farewell  in  America.  On 
the  last  night  —  it  was  my  benefit  night  —  the  play  was 
Armand,  when  I  appeared  upon  the  stage,  and  lis 
tened  to  a  greeting  even  more  than  ordinarily  enthusias 
tic:  a  multitude  of  recollections  suddenly  broke  upon 
me,  sweeping  away  my  composure  in  their  strong  cur 
rent.  Thoughts  of  my  first  public  appearance,  made 


LAST   NIGHT   IX   AMERICA.  265 

in  Boston  —  of  the  varied  trials  since  that  day  of  hope 
and  promise  —  of  the  new  ordeal  through  which  I  was 
about  to  pass  —  of  the  possibility  that  I  might  never 
stand  before  this  well-beloved  audience  again  —  crowded 
upon  my  mind  with  bewildering  force.  It  was  the  first 
time  since  I  became  an  actress  that  any  personal  emo 
tion  had  gained  sufficient  mastery  to  interfere  with  my 
interpretation  of  the  character  I  represented.  Tears 
are  unbecoming  at  all  times.  Red  and  swollen  eyes,  to 
say  nothing  of  other  disfigurements  consequent  upon 
weeping,  were  particularly  inappropriate  to  the  joyous 
May  Queen.  Mrs.  Maywood,  who  was  playing  my 
nurse,  Babette  as  she  encircled  me  with  her  arms, 
intermingled  her  whispered  words  of  consolation  with 
this  womanly  hint.  There  are  moments  when  a  per 
former  has  a  magnetic  perception  of  the  pulse  throb- 
bings  of  his  audience,  and  knows  that  they  beat  in  unison 
with  his  own.  I  felt  that  there  were  answering  sympa 
thies  around  me,  and  was  certain  that  the  "  red  eyes," 
which  my  good  Babette  thought  so  frightful,  would  be 
pardoned. 

On  the  1st  of  November,  1847,  we  sailed  from  Bos 
ton  for  Liverpool,  in  the  Cambria,  commanded  by 
Captain  Judkins.  Mr.  Davenport  accompanied  us. 
His  support  had  been  found  so  advantageous,  during 
his  first  year,  that  he  was  engaged  for  a  second. 

We  were,  of  course,  well  provided  with  introductory 
letters.  Henry  Clay  sent  me  one  to  the  Earl  of  Car 
lisle,  and  another  to  the  American  minister,  Mr.*  Ban 
croft.  They  were  neither  mere  formal  letters  of  intro 
duction.  In  the  latter,  he  makes  a  graceful  allusion  to 
the  difference  of  politics  between  himself  and  this  gen 
tleman.  There  were  subjects  of  private  interest  upon 


266       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

which  he  hoped  that  their  opinions  would  not  be  at 
variance.  I  quote  the  concluding  portion  of  the  letter 
in  which  this  was  enclosed :  — 

"  Many,  many  thanks  for  the  friendly  sentiments 
towards  me  contained  in  your  letter.  A  member  of 
my  family  snatched  Evelyn  from  me  to  peruse;  and 
owing  to  that  cause,  and  for  want  of  time,  I  have  not 
yet  read  it.  I  shall  go  into  it  with  such  partiality  for  its 
authoress  as  to  disqualify  me  as  a  critic,  if  otherwise  I 
was,  what  I  happen  not  to  be,  a  competent  judge. 

"  May  honor,  fame,  pleasure,  and  riches  be  your  re 
ward  in  England,  with  a  safe  and  happy  return  to  our 
own  dear  country." 

Just  before  we  sailed  I  received  another  letter  from 
Mr.  Clay,  in  which  these  words  occur :  — 

"  I  have  read,  with  much  delight,  the  quotations  from 
Armand.  Don't  let  the  duties  of  the  actress  engross 
all  your  time,  but  leave  a  fair  portion  of  it  for  those  of 
the  authoress. 

"  May  God  protect,  preserve,  and  prosper  you  while 
absent,  and  bring  you  back,  with  increased  fame  and 
renown,  in  safety  to  our  dear  country." 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Arrival  in  Liverpool. —  The  Rev.  Mr.  S nand  Mrs.  S n. — Man* 

Chester  Critics.  —  First  Rehearsal  at  Theatre  Royal,  Manchester.  — 
First  Night  in  England.  —  Manchester  Guardian.  —  Engage 
ment  at  Princesses'1  Theatre,  London.  —  Distressing  Rehearsals.  — 
The  tico  Helens.  —  Miss  Susan  Cushman.  —  Visitation  from  the 
Mistress  of  the  Wardrobe.— Petty  Miseries.  —The  Trials  of  a  first 
Night. — First  Attack  of  "Stage  Fright." — A  near  Approach  to 
Failure.  —  Sudden  Transition.  —  Success  at  the  Eleventh  Hour. 


A  SUCCESSION  of  violent  gales  rendered  our  voyage 
more  than  ordinarily  perilous.  The  sight  of  land  glad 
dened  our  eyes  on  the  fifteenth  day.  On  arriving  in 
Liverpool,  we  found  that  the  Cambria  was  reported  to 
have  been  wrecked  off  Cape  Race.  The  ship  lost  was 
the  packet  Stephen  Philip,  with  ninety-one  passengers. 

A  portion  of  our  engine  was  broken  during  the  pas 
sage,  and  we  lay  still  seven  hours  while  it  was  repairing. 
We  met  no  other  accident.  The  stormy  voyage  brought 
vividly  to  mind  the  terrible  recollections  of  my  child 
hood  —  the  shipwreck  and  the  loss  of  my  young 
brother.  But  I  was  too  thoroughly  a  victim  to  mal  de 
mer  to  be  susceptible  even  of  fear. 

"We  remained  a  week  in  Liverpool,  that  I  might  re 
cover  from  the  effects  of  this  oppressive  sea  malady, 
and  then  left  for  Manchester. 

First  and  firmest  amongst  the  friends  we  made  in  a 

foreign  land  were  the  Rev.  Mr.  S n  and  his  wife. 

Mr.  S n  had,  for  many  years,  been  pastor  of  a  New 

(267) 


268       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Church  society  in  Manchester.  I  pause  when  I  would 
write  of  these  revered  friends,  and  niy  mind  fills  with 
affectionate  and  grateful  remembrances.  I  need  not 
here  record  all  the  evidences  we  received  of  a  valuable 
and  energetic  friendship.  They  are  registered  in  a 
more  lasting  chronicle,  to  the  pages  of  which  I  often 
turn. 

Previous  to  our  debut,  Mrs.  S n  entertained  un 
disguised  fears  that  we  would  receive  harsh  treatment 
at  the  hands  of  the  proverbially  caustic  Manchester 
critics.  She  called  upon  the  most  ascetic  of  the  cynical 
brotherhood,  to  "smooth  the  raven  down"  by  interesting 
him  in  my  history.  The  experiment  was  only  calcu 
lated  to  render  him  more  uncompromising.  In  another 
field  she  was  more  successful.  Her  womanly  efforts 
raised  me  up  an  army  of  defenders  amongst  the  mem 
bers  of  her  husband's  congregation.  They  were  pre 
pared  to  support  me  if  I  betrayed  the  faintest  glimmer 
ing  of  genius. 

Another  anxious  friend  called  upon  the  theatrical 
critic  of  the  Manchester  Guardian,  the  leading  oracle 
of  the  press,  and  offered  to  present  him  to  me.  The 
cautious  and  conscientious  critic  declined  the  introduction 
until  after  my  debut,  remarking  that  a  personal  acquaint 
ance  might  prepossess  him  in  my  favor,  and  interfere 
with  the  justice  of  his  criticism.  And  of  such  judges 
was  the  tribunal  composed  before  which  we  were  to  be 
sifted,  scanned,  and  tested.  In  such  hands  was  placed 
Distinction's 

"  Broad  and  powerful  fan," 
that, 

"  Puffing  at  all,  winnows  the  light  away." 

If  our  talents  fell  short  in  their  "  fair  proportions  "  of 


FIRST  REHEARSAL  IX  ENGLAND.       269 

some  fabulous  or  imaginary  standard,  we  were  to  be 
annihilated  by  a  paragraph  —  stabbed  by  thrusts  of 
steel  in  the  form  of  pens  —  exterminated  by  the  simoom 
of  a  critic's  breath.  Pleasant  auguries,  these,  to  usher 
in  our  career  in  a  land  of  strangers. 

The  theatre  was  a  remarkably  beautiful  one.  The 
play  selected  for  our  debut  was,  as  usual,  the  Lady  of 
Lyons.  Our  only  rehearsal  took  place  on  the  day  of 
performance.  We  could  not  but  notice  the  half  sneer 
that  flitted  across  the  faces  of  the  English  actors  during 
that  rehearsal.  They  were  incredulous  as  to  our  abil 
ities,  and,  perhaps,  not  without  some  cause.  Now  and 
then  there  was  a  contemptuous  intonation  in  their 
voices  that  seemed  to  rebuke  us  for  presumption. 
Their  shafts  "  hit,  but  hurt  not."  Our  American  inde 
pendence  was  an  aegis,  from  which  the  arrows  fell  with 
out  producing  any  effect  but  merriment.  No  hand  of 
welcome  was  extended  —  no  word  of  encouragement 
was  spoken  to  the  intruding  "Yankees."  We  were 
surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  impenetrable  frigidity. 
And  yet  there  were,  no  doubt,  kind  hearts  among  the 
doubters.  But  the  "stars"  were  transatlantic,  and 
their  light  was  unacknowledged  in  that  hemisphere. 
Even  the  subordinates  of  the  theatre  gave  it  as  their 
private  opinion  that  these  new  luminaries  would  be 
extinguished  without  trouble. 

At  night,  when  the  curtain  rose  upon  Pauline,  the 
greeting  of  the  audience  said  plainly,  "  Let  us  see  what 
you  can  do ! "  and  it  said  nothing  more.  Claude  re 
ceived  the  same  gracious  though  prorniseless  permission. 
But  even  that  greeting  assured  us  of  that  downright 
generous  trait  in  John  Bull  which  makes  him  the 
fairest  of  umpires,  even  where  he  is  a  party  to  the  con- 


270       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

test.  Once  make  it  plain  that  he  is  beaten,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  trial  with  the  New  York  yacht,  and  he  will 
huzza  for  the  victor  as  vociferously  as  he  would  have 
done  for  himself  had  he  been  on  the  winning  side. 

Before  the  fall  of  the  curtain  on  the  fourth  act,  it 
was  decided  that  the  "  stars  "  were  not  to  be  "  put  out." 
At  the  fall  on  the  fifth,  they  had  taken  an  honorable 
place  in  the  theatrical  firmament,  and  were  allowed  to 
shine  with  undisputed  light. 

The  heartiness  of  the  call  before  the  curtain,  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  play,  atoned  for  the  shyness  of  our 
reception.  Mr.  Davenport  thanked  the  audience  in  a 
speech  eloquent  with  genuine  feeling. 

And  now  a  marvellous  change  suddenly  took  place 
in  the  deportment  of  the  actors  towards  us.  There  was 
a  "  making  way "  for  the  successful  candidates  to  public 
favor  —  a  looking  up  to  instead  of  the  looking  down  on 
them.  Sneers  and  innuendoes  were  magically  converted 
into  smiles  and  congratulations.  There  were  even 
speculations  afloat  concerning  the  "  hit"  that  we  would 
make  upon  a  London  stage. 

The  debutants  had  been  as  cheerful  as  could  be  ex 
pected  over  the  distrust  and  disdain  with  which  they 
had  been  treated  in  the  morning ;  and  they  were  now 
able  to  be  unaffectedly  merry  at  the  equally  unlooked- 
for  courtesies  lavished  upon  them  at  night. 

The  next  morning  the  critics  were  unanimous  in 
commendation  —  with  the  exception  of  the  Exam 
iner,  whoni  Mrs.  S n  had  attempted  to  disarm  of  his 

ferocity.  But  he  was  harmlessly  savage,  and  reluctant 
ly  admitted  that  the  American  candidates  had  gained  a 
foothold  in  the  affections  of  the  English  public. 

The  Guardian  —  reputed  to  be  the  critic  of  first 


MANCHESTER    GUARDIAN.  271 

importance  in  Manchester  —  prefaced  his  criticism  with 
the  following  paragraph  :  — • 

"  MRS.  MOWATT  AND  MR.  DAVENPORT,  THE  AMERICAN  AC 
TORS.  —  Exaggeration  of  a  peculiar  kind,  if  not  rant,  has  been  so 
uniformly  a  characteristic  of  all  the  American  actors  •whom  we  have 
seen,  that  we  hfeve  been  induced  to  view  it  as  an  attribute  of  the 
American  stage.  That  it  is  not  an  inseparable  attribute,  the  chas 
tened  style  of  the  artists  named  above,  who  made  their  English 
dfbict  at  our  Theatre  Royal  on  Monday  evening,  in  the  Lady  of 
Lyons,  satisfactorily  demonstrates. 

"  Mrs.  Mowatt,  judging  from  the  accounts  of  her  which  the  Ameri 
can  papers  have  occasionally  furnished,  is  highly  endowed  with  in 
tellect,  the  cultivation  and  exercise  of  which  have  by  no  means 
been  neglected,  either  in  the  departments  of  dramatic  or  general 
literature ;  indeed,  in  this  respect,  we  know  of  none  of  our  English 
actresses  who  stand  a  comparison  with  her  except  Mrs.  Butler.  Let 
us  add,  that  Mrs.  Mowatt  has  a  most  engaging  person,  —  slight  in 
form,  features  capable  alike  of  gentle  and  forcible  expression,  a 
voice  of  silvery  sweetness,  —  and  that  her  bearing  is  marked  by  re 
finement,  and  then  we  have  said  enough  to  prove  that  she  has 
qualifications  for  the  stage  of  a  high  order. 

"Mr.  Davenport  has  a  manly  person,  easy  deportment,  and  an 
elocution  very  smooth  and  agreeable." 

Then  follows  a  long  and  elaborate  critique  on  the 
Lady  of  Lyons,  the  manner  in  which  it  is  represented 
by  Mr.  Macready  and  Miss  Faucit,  and  finally  by 
ourselves. 

"We  appeared  every  night  for  a  fortnight.  At  the 
close  of  the  engagement,  the  manager  informed  us  that 
Mr.  Maddox,  of  the  Princesses'  Theatre,  desired  to 
enter  into  an  arrangement  for  our  appearance  in  Lon 
don.  This  was  precisely  what  we  most  desired. 

A  few  days  after  our  arrival  in  the  great  metropolis 
all  preliminaries  were  settled,  and  we  engaged  to  ap 
pear  at  the  Princesses'  Theatre  on  the  5th  of  January, 
1848,  and  to  play  alternate  nights  with  Madame  Thil- 


272       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Ion  for  six  weeks.  I  was  thus  relieved  from  the 
necessity  of  acting  every  night,  and  afforded  an  op 
portunity  for  needful  rest  and  even  more  requisite 
study. 

We  selected  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  as  on  previous  oc 
casions,  for  our  opening  play.  The  cost  of  its  produc 
tion  in  London  was  twenty  pounds.  This  sum  gave  a 
theatre  the  right  of  performance  for  the  whole  season. 
The  author  demanded  the  same  sum  if  the  play  were 
enacted  for  a  single  night.  The  manager  of  the  Prin 
cesses'  objected  to  so  expensive  a  selection.  The  usual 
price  paid  to  an  author  for  the  representation  of  a  five- 
act  drama  is  two  guineas  per  night.  After  manifold 
discussions  and  endless  canvassing  of  the  merits  of  va 
rious  plays,  we  consented  to  make  our  debut  in  the 
Hunchback  of  James  Sheridan  Knowles. 

Our  first  rehearsal  in  an  English  provincial  theatre 
had  not  proved  particularly  delightful.  But  it  was  a 
foreshadowing  of,  and  a  needful  preparation  for,  the 
more  aggravated,  temper-trying  inflictions  that  awaited 
us  at  a  London  rehearsal.  The  stage  aristocrats  of  the 
company  made  no  effort  to  conceal  their  absolute  con 
tempt  for  the  American  aspirants. 

Figuratively  speaking,  we  were  made  to  walk  through 
a  lane  of  nettles,  so  narrow  that  we  could  not  avoid  get 
ting  scratched.  The  more  gently  they  were  touched, 
the  more  deeply  they  stung.  At  the  request,  politely 
urged,  of  "Be  so  good  as  to  cross  to  the  right — I 
occupy  the  left"  —  the  answer  dryly  returned  was, 
"  Excuse  me ;  I  played  this  part  originally  with  Mrs. 
Butler,  at  Drury  Lane  —  I  always  kept  this  position  — 
it  is  the  proper  situation."  Then  there  was  a  signifi 
cant  look  at  the  prompter,  which  said,  "  This  republican 
dust  offends  us !  We  must  get  rid  of  it !  " 


A    DISTRESSING   REHEARSAL.  273 

The  more  mildly  Mr.  Davenport  and  myself  uttered 
our  unavoidable  requests,  the  more  decidedly  we  were 
answered  with  objections  to  our  wishes,  founded  upon 
the  authority  of  some  mighty  precedent.  Neither  pa 
tience  nor  gentleness  could  disarm  our  antagonists. 
Wearied  out  with  hearing  that  Mrs.  Butler  sat  during 
her  delivery  of  a  certain  speech,  and,  therefore,  that 
nobody  else  could  stand  —  or  that  Miss  Faucit  fainted 
with  her  head  leaning  forwards,  and,  therefore,  no 
Julia  could  faint  with  her  head  inclined  backwards 
—  or  that  Mrs.  Kean  threw  herself  at  a  certain  point 
into  the  arms  of  Master  "Walter,  and,  therefore,  the  em 
brace  was  a  necessity  —  I  at  hist  boldly,  and,  I  confess, 
with  some  temper,  said,  "  Sir,  when  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  become  the  mere  imitator  of  Mrs.  Butler, 
or  of  Miss  Faucit,  or  of  Mrs.  Kean,  I  shall,  perhaps, 
come  to  you  for  instruction.  At  present,  it  is  for  the 
public  to  decide  upon  the  faultiness  of  my  conception. 
I  shall  not  alter  it,  in  spite  of  the  very  excellent  author 
ity  you  have  cited." 

This  determined  declaration  (it  was  certainly  a  "  dec 
laration  of  independence ")  silenced  my  principal  tor 
mentor.  He  made  up  his  mind  that,  if  I  was  wanting 
in  talent,  I  was  not  deficient  in  spirit.  He  would  have 
bowed  before  the  one,  but  he  at  least  yielded  to  the 
other. 

But  this  was  not  my  only  or  most  serious  annoyance. 
Miss  Susan  Cushman  was  to  enact  the  character  of 
Helen.  She  sent  an  apology  for  her  absence  at  re 
hearsal  on  the  plea  of  indisposition.  The  manager 
chose  to  imagine  that  she  entertained  some  theatrical 
jealousy  towards  a  countrywoman,  and  purposed  to  ab 
sent  herself  on  the  night  of  our  first  appearance.  No 
18 


274      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

substitute  for  so  important  a  part  as  Helen  could  be 
provided  at  short  notice,  and  the  play  would  necessarily 
have  to  be  withdrawn — the  anticipated  debut  post 
poned. 

I  see  no  reason  for  supposing  that  Miss  Cushman 
meditated  any  such  unamiable  intentions  as  were  attrib 
uted  to  her  by  the  manager.  We  were  very  slightly 
acquainted,  but  our  intercourse  had  been  agreeable. 

Miss  Cushman's  name  was  unceremoniously  expunged 
from  the  "cast;"  and  Miss  Emmeline  Montague,  the 
leading  lady  of  the  theatre,  was  persuaded  by  Mr.  Mad- 
dox  to  undertake  the  role  of  Helen. 

At  the  last  rehearsal,  for  we  had  several,  just  as  Miss 
Montague  commenced  rehearsing,  Miss  Susan  Cushman 
walked  upon  the  stage.  She  inquired  by  what  right 
the  character  belonging  to  her  was  given  to  another 
lady.  The  manager,"  who  was  not  celebrated  for  a  con 
ciliatory  demeanor  towards  his  company,  bluntly  in 
formed  her  of  his  suspicions.  An  angry  scene  ensued, 
such  as  I  never  before,  and  I  rejoice  to  say  never  after, 
witnessed  in  any  theatre.  Rehearsal  was  interrupted. 
I  sat  down  at  the  prompter's  table  in  a  most  unenviable 
state  of  mind.  The  actors  stood  in  clusters  around  the 
wings,  enjoying  the  dispute.  Miss  Cushman  and  Mr 
Maddox  occupied  the  stage.  A  casual  spectator  might 
have  supposed  they  were  rehearsing  some  tempestuous 
passages  of  a  melodrama.  Miss  Cushman  declared  that 
she  would  play  Helen,  for  that  she  had  done  nothing  to 
forfeit  her  right  to  the  performance.  Mr.  Maddox 
maintained  that  the  part  should  be  played  by  Miss 
Montague.  Miss  Cushman  was  very  naturally  exasper 
ated.  I  remained  silent,  but  internally  wishing  that 
the  disputants  might  suddenly  disappear  through  some 


FIRST   NIGHT   IN   A   LONDON   THEATRE.          275 

of  the  trap  doors  that  checkered  the  stage  and  were 
devoted  to  the  use  of  fairies  and  hobgoblins. 

Finally  Mr.  Maddox  ordered  that  the  stage  should  be 
cleared  and  rehearsal  continued.  Miss  Cushman  was 
forced  to  retire.  Just  as  she  reached  the  wing,  she 
turned  back  and  offered  me  her  hand.  I  gave  her  mine 
—  she  departed,  and  rehearsal  proceeded.  This  ex 
traordinary  scene  in  the  drama  of  real  life  thoroughly 
unnerved  and  unfitted  me  for  the  business  of  the  hour ; 
and  that  night  I  was  to  make  my  London  debut  f 

I  had  not  recovered  from  the  painful  excitement 
when  I  drove  to  the  theatre  in  the  evening  to  dress  for 
the  performance  of  Julia.  How  shall  I  describe  the 
petty  miseries,  the  mountain  of  vexation,  made  up  of 
"  unconsidered  trifles,"  that  rendered  that  night  un 
speakably  wretched  ?  Who  does  not  know  how  much 
easier  it  is  to  endure  a  great  and  actual  trial  than  the 
pin-pricks  of  accumulated  annoyances  ? 

Shivering  with  cold,  I  entered  the  dreary  "  star  dress 
ing  room."  My  newly-engaged  maid  awaited  me.  She 
was  a  quiet,  timid,  middle-aged  woman,  and  appeared 
nearly  as  nervous  as  myself. 

"  Is  there  no  fire  ?  "  I  inquired,  with  chattering  teeth. 

"  This  stove  smokes,  ma'am ;  and  the  ladies  com 
plain  so  much  that  I  was  afraid  to  have  it  lighted." 

"  But  I  shall  freeze  while  I  am  dressing !  " 

The  good  woman  looked  distressed,  and  seemed  to 
think  it  very  likely. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  mistress  of  the  wardrobe 
entered  with  some  dresses  which  she  had  persuaded  me 
to  let  her  alter,  that  they  might  be  more  in  accordance 
with  English  taste.  In  a  somewhat  authoritative  tone, 
she  bade  the  maid  light  all  the  gas  burners,  informing 


276       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

me  that  they  would  sufficiently  heat  the  room.  They 
soon  created  an  unwholesome  warmth,  which  was,  how 
ever,  more  endurable  than  absolute  cold. 

The  mistress  of  the  wardrobe,  to  my  surprise  and 
annoyance,  seemed  prepared  to  make  herself  at  home  in 
my  comfortless  apartment.  At  all  events,  it  was  more 
than  /could  do.  She  had  belonged  to  the  theatre  a 
number  of  years,  and  had  complacently  passed  judg 
ment  on  all  the  "  stars "  whose  transitory  light  had 
illumined  that  firmament.  Her  loquacity  nearly  deaf 
ened  me ;  but  she  was  a  personage  of  too  much  im 
portance  to  be  coolly  requested  to  leave  the  room. 

I  did  venture  a  gentle  hint,  by  remarking,  signifi 
cantly,  "I  think  I  must  begin  to  dress  soon"  —  but  I 
was  defeated  by  the  quiet  tone  of  acquiescence  with 
which  she  replied,  "I  think  you  must,  or  you  wo'nt 
be  ready." 

I  thought  of  Sinbad  the  sailor,  and  the  old  man  of 
the  sea  upon  his  shoulders,  who  could  not  be  shaken  off. 
I  began  to  dress.  My  unwelcome  visitor  poured  forth 
one  unceasing  stream  of  gossip  as  she  watched  me. 
Now  and  then  she  directed  or  chid  the  timid  maid,  but 
never  attempted  to  assist  her.  I  prepared  to  arrange 
my  hair. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  have  a  hair  dresser  ?  "  inquired 
my  tormentor,  looking  aghast  at  my  evident  intention 
of  being  my  own  coiffeur. 

"  No.     I  always  dress  my  own  hair !  " 

"  Well,  now,  let's  see  what  you're  going  to  make  of 
it !  What  a  heap  of  hair  you've  got,  to  be  sure  ! " 

A  heap  of  hair !  I  was  inclined  to  be  vain  of  the 
length  and  abundance  of  my  hair  —  I  may  make  the 
admission  now.  I  looked  at  her,  —  I  will  not  describe 


A   TORMENTING   VISITOR.  277 

in  what  manner,  —  but  I  might  as  well  have  looked  at 
the  Great  Mogul,  under  the  delusion  that  he  would  be 
awed.  The  "  heap  of  hair  "  was  rapidly  divided  into  a 
single  row  of  ringlets  that  fell  to  the  waist. 

"  You're  not  going  to  leave  your  hair  in  that  wild 
fashion?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  am  —  I  constantly  wear  it  so." 

"  Good  gracious !  the  audience  will  guy  you ! " 

"  6%  me?" 

"  Why,  yes — guy  you  — guy  you !  —  they  will ! " 

"  Guy  me  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  guy  ?  "  I  asked, 
becoming  alarmed,  in  spite  of  myself,  at  the  unknown 
horror. 

"  Why,  laugh  at  you,  to  be  sure  —  and  chaff"  you ! " 

"Chaff  me?" 

"Yes;  clap  their  hands,  as  if  they  thought  it  was 
very  pretty,  and  all  the  time  be  guying  you.  Don't  you 
know  about  the  fifth  of  November  —  Guy  Fawkes's  day 
—  when  they  carry  a  guy  about  the  streets  to  make 
sport  of  ?  That's  guying  !  " 

This  was  a  novel  style  of  gunpowder  plot,  and  I  was 
standing  over  the  tram  which  my  ringlets  were  to 
ignite  ! 

I  turned  from  the  glass,  which  reflected  a  face  not 
very  amiable  in  its  expression,  and  commenced  dress 
ing. 

"  Wait  a  moment !  wait  a  moment !  I  have  forgotten 
something!"  said  my  persecutor,  and  ran  out  of  the 
room. 

She  returned  in  a  moment,  and  handed  me  a  wadded 
jupon,  very  dexterously  made  to  amplify  and  round  the 
form. 

"I  made  this  for  you  to  wear,  for  I  noticed  you 


278      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

hadn't  much  more  figure  than  a  beanstalk.  You  look 
as  if  a  breath  of  air  would  blow  you  away." 

It  was  true  that  I  was,  at  that  period,  excessively 
thin  —  my  weight  being  less  than  ninety  pounds, 
although  I  was  slightly  above  the  medium  height. 

I  looked  doubtfully  at  this  new  and  ingenious  appli 
ance  of  the  toilet,  but  was  finally  persuaded  to  try  its 
effect.  To  my  own  eyes  the  added  breadth  gave  me  a 
disproportioned  appearance,  rendering  the  waist  wasp 
ish,  and  the  shoulders  too  narrow.  I  was  assured  that 
it  was  a  great  improvement,  and  made  me  look  less  in 
significant.  There  was  no  time  for  alteration ;  the 
"  call  boy  "  had  tapped  at  the  door,  and  given  the  sum 
mons,  "  Julia,  you  are  called."  At  the  same  moment, 
Mr.  Mowatt  came  to  conduct  me  to  the  entrance,  where 
the  Helen  of  the  evening  stood  waiting. 

Helen  and  Julia  enter  together.  As  we  advanced 
from  the  back  of  the  stage,  we  were  greeted  with  re 
peated  rounds  of  applause.  But  it  was  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  one  half  of  the  welcome  was  intended  for 
Miss  Montague,  a  lady  who,  for  her  talents  and  her  pri 
vate  virtues,  was  held  in  deservedly  high  esteem. 

For  the  first  time  I  comprehended  the  full  meaning 
of  the  mystical  words,  "stage  fright,"  My  moment 
de  peur  had  come  at  last.  The  malady  had  seized 
me,  and  in  its  worst  form.  With  my  first  attempt  to 
acknowledge  the  salutation  of  the  audience,  I  lost 

"  The  ease 
That  marks  security  to  please." 

I  could  not  force  my  quivering  lips  into  a  smile ; 
when  I  spoke,  I  could  not  hear  the  sound  of  my  own 
voice ;  floating  mists  were  dancing  before  my  eyes ;  I 
saw  three  faces  of  Helen  instead  of  one.  What 


FIRST   ATTACK    OF    STAGE    FRIGHT.  279 

was  the  matter  with  my  feet  ?  When  I  tried  to  walk, 
the  tiny  links  of  some  invisible  chain  bound  them  to 
gether.  And  my  limbs  —  why  could  not  the  most  reso 
lute  effort  prevent  their  tremulous  motion  ?  My  very 
hair,  as  it  touched  my  shoulders,  seemed  to  have  a 
clammy,  Medusa-like  coil.  Mechanically,  meaninglessly 
I  uttered  the  words  of  the  part,  and  gazed  at  the  trip 
licated  Helen  with  a  vacant  stare.  Not  a  hand  of 
applause  was  raised  for  Julia  through  that  first  act  — 
nor  through  the  second  —  nor  through  the  third  — 
though  the  author  has  afforded  manifold  opportunities 
of  making  "points."  I  had  never  before  failed,  at 
certain  bursts  of  passion,  to  elicit  the  responsiveness  of 
the  audience.  But  I  could  make  no  bursts.  Like  an 
automaton,  I  moved  inanimately  through  the  part. 
I  seemed  to  myself  gradually  sinking  on  a  shoreless 
sea,  in  a  dead  calm,  —  the  sea  of  public  condemnation,  — 
without  the  power  to  grasp  even  at  a  straw. 

The  fourth  act  commenced.  Master  Walter  leads 
the  penitent  Julia  through  the  sumptuous  halls  of  her 
affianced  bridegroom's  mansion.  A  mirror  is  supposed 
to  be  seen  in  the  distance.  Master  Walter  bids  Julia 
look  at  the  reflected  image  of  the  mistress,  in  anticipa 
tion,  of  these  splendors.  At  rehearsal,  Master  Walter 
had  asked  me,  as  he  was  in  courtesy  bound  to  do,  on 
which  side  I  preferred  the  imaginary  mirror  to  be  situ 
ated.  I  answered,  on  the  left.  It  is  often  confusing, 
even  to  very  old  actors,  to  have  the  "  sides,"  on  which 
they  have  been  accustomed  to  act,  unexpectedly 
changed.  Did  Master  Walter  remember  this  when  he 
deliberately  crossed  the  stage,  and  pointed  me  out  the 
mirror  on  the  right?  I  was  ungenerous  enough  to 
fancy  he  did. 


280      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Master  Walter  hands  Julia  a  chair,  and  seats  himself 
beside  her.  At  the  words*  — 

"  0  happy  steed, 

My  heart  bounds  at  the  thought  of  thee !    Thou  comest 
To  bear  the  page  from,  bonds  to  liberty  !  "  — 

Julia  springs  joyfully  from  her  seat.  The,  action  is 
so  natural  that  it  can  hardly  be  avoided.  Master  "Wal 
ter  had  handed  me  the  chair.  I  sat  down.  He  took 
another  chair,  gazed  at  me  mournfully  for  a  moment, 
then  deliberately  (but  unconsciously,  I  hope)  placed 
it  upon  my  flowing  train,  and  seated  himself.  To 
start  up  at  the  required  moment,  without  leaving  the 
train  behind  me,  would  have  been  impossible.  I  en 
deavored  to  disengage  the  folds  without  interrupting  his 
history  of  the  "  princess  and  page,"  but  unsuccessfully. 
I  tried  to  attract  his  attention  to  the  mishap,  but  he  was 
rapt  in  his  part.  I  had  no  alternative  but  to  utter 
the  required  lines  without  attempting  to  start  up,  and 
to  wait  patiently  until  he  thought  proper  to  rise  and 
release  me. 

At  the  announcement  of  the  Earl's  secretary,  Master 
Walter  was  forced  to  make  his  exit.  I  was  a  prisoner 
no  longer.  I  stood  alone  upon  the  stage.  The  oppress 
ing  influences  had  vanished.  The  icy  spell  was  sud 
denly  broken.  My  paralyzing  fears  melted  away.  I 
delivered  the  soliloquy,  commencing,  — 

"  A  wedded  bride !    Is  it  a  dream  ?  is  it  a  phantom  ?  *'  — 

with  an  impassioned  abandon  that  called  down  a  storm 
of  surprised  applause.  It  was  the  first  I  had  received 
since  I  opened  my  lips.  Davenport  entered  as  Clifford. 
How  the  scene  between  Julia  and  the  new  secretary 
was  enacted,  the  plaudits,  that  came  in  sudden  gusts 


SUCCESS   AT   THE   ELEVENTH    HOUR.  281 

from  the  time  it  commenced,  and  the  vociferous  attempt 
to  call  us  before  the  curtain  at  the  close  of  the  fourth 
act,  abundantly  testified.  I  refused  to  answer  the  sum 
mons,  but  hastened  to  my  dressing  room  to  assume 
Julia's  bridal  attire.  I  was  myself  again  —  or  rather,  I 
was  once  more  the  character  I  represented.  Had  I 
found  the  pertinacious  visitant  in  my  apartment,  I 
should  have  dismissed  her  as  unhesitatingly  as  I  threw 
aside  the  fictitious  embellishment  which  she  compelled 
me  to  wear. 

If,  when  I  appeared  on  the  stage  in  the  fifth  act,  the 
audience  remarked  that  Julia  had  grown  mysteriously 
slender,  they  were  at  liberty  to  conclude  that  she  had 
pined  away,  and  become  etherealized  by  her  sorrows. 
How  I  passed  through  Julia's  stormy  scene  with  Master 
"Walter,  the  audience  told  me  with  unmistakable 
voices.  I  was  no  longer  panic-stricken.  Master  Wal 
ter  might  have  led  me  to  the  wrong  side  of  the  stage, 
or  taken  prisoner  my  train  —  he  could  not  now  have 
disconcerted  me.  I  had  passed  out  of  the  narrow  limit 
to  which  an  actor's  malice  could  reach.  Half  an  hour 
before,  I  had  stood  upon  the  very  brink  of  failure.  By 
a  sudden  transition  of  feeling  within  myself,  a  similar 
revulsion  had  been  produced  upon  the  audience,  and 
their  verdict  was  reversed.  That  verdict  we  re 
ceived  at  the  close  of  the  fifth  act,  in  front  of  the  cur 
tain.  The  "  call "  had  never  before  imparted  to  me  a 
sensation  of  such  intense  pleasure.  I  needed  this 
marked  assurance  that  I  had  removed  the  impression 
made  by  my  apathetic  acting  through  three  weary  acts 
of  the  play. 

Mr.  Davenport  escaped  the  annoyances  to  which  I 
had  been  subjected.  The  part  of  Clifford  is  not  one  in 


282       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

which  he  could  exhibit  the  extent  of  his  talents  ;  but 
his  fine  person,  manly  bearing,  and  quietly  earnest  act 
ing  vron  ready  favor. 

It  was  six  months  before  I  wholly  recovered  from  the 
mental  effects  of  that  first  night  upon  a  London  stage. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

London  Editors.  —  The  Daily  Times  and  the  Earl  of  Carlisle.  — 
Mr.  Macready.  —  Personal  Acquaintance  and  friendly  Services.  — 
First  Engagement  at  Theatre  Royal  Olympic.  —  Lady  of  Lyons.  — 
Reengagement  in  Conjunction  with  Mr.  Brooke.  —  The  Lords  of 
Ellingham. — Accident  on  Jirst  Night's  Representation. — Mary 
Hoicitt.  —  Her  Artist  Daughter.  —  Camilla  Crosland.  —  Poem. — 
Mr.  Macready' s  Fareicell  at  Theatre  Royal,  Marylebone.  —  Our 
Engagement.  —  Succession  of  ReSngagements.  —  Permanent  Stars. 
—  "  Shadow  on  the  Wall."  — Armand produced  in  London.  — Note 
from  W.  J.  Fox,  M.  P.,  on  the  Morning  of  Representation.  —  His 
Critique  in  the  Examiner.  —  Publication  of  Play. — Effect  of 
Play  Books  in  the  Theatre  upon  Actors.  —  A  Prompter's  Anec 
dote.  —  Presentation  of  Silver  Vase.— The  Witch  Wife. 

No  ordeal  could  be  severer  than  the  one  through 
which  we  passed  on  that  first  night  in  London. 
Amongst  the  audience,  there  were  not  a  dozen  persons 
whose  hands  had  ever  clasped  ours  in  friendly  greeting. 
Even  the  few  to  whom  we  were  personally  known  had 
been  strangers  a  week  before.  Amongst  the  members 
of  the  press  and  the  habitues  of  the  theatre,  who  play 
the  critic  with  a  faultfinding  passion,  —  for 

"  A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade 
Save  censure  —  critics  all  are  ready  made,"  — 

we  had  not  a  single  acquaintance.  Consequently,  we 
were  not  prepared  for  the  flattering  estimate  of  our 
abilities  which  appeared  in  the  public  journals  on  the 
morning  after  our  debut. 

The  Hunchback  was  repeated  for  our  second  appear- 

(283) 


284      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

ance.  On  this  occasion  the  performance  was  not 
marred  by  the  demoniacal  possession  of  the  spirit  of 
"  stage-fright." 

Benedick  and  Beatrice  were  our  next  impersonations. 
I  quote  one  of  the  notices  which  met  our  well-pleased 
eyes  on  the  ensuing  morning  :  — 

"  The  great  test  of  a  true  dramatic  artiste  is  Shakspeare.  Many 
an  actor  or  actress  who  has  acquired  a  fair  portion  of  fame  in  the 
ordinary  run  of  characters  fails  in  the  attempt  to  imbody  the  crea 
tions  of  Shakspeare  ;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  the  artiste  who  can 
act  Shakspeare  can  act  any  thing  else  with  ease  and  success.  Mrs. 
Mowatt  was  last  night  tried  by  the  Shakspearian  test,  and  was  not 
found  wanting.  She  is  an  artiste  —  there  is  no  mistake  about  it. 
She  has  the  ring  of  the  genuine  metal  —  she  can  act  Shakspeare  ! 
The  play  was  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  and  Mrs.  Mowatt  sus 
tained  the  part  of  Beatrice.  She  looked  charmingly,  and  thor 
oughly  entered  into  the  spirit  of  her  part.  Nothing  could  exceed 
the  playful  espikgleirie  with  which  she  bantered  Benedick,  and  the 
thorough  gusto  with  which  she  gave  the  repartees.  Her  ringing, 
tinkling  laugh,  too,  was  fascinating,  exceedingly  —  it  was  the  laugh 
of  genuine  enjoyment.  In  the  more  serious  scenes,  too,  —  although, 
perhaps,  she  exhibited  here  and  there  a  tendency  to  overacting, 
which  appears  to  be  the  great  fault  of  the  American  school  of 
tragedy,  —  she  was  very  fine.  '  One  touch  of  feeling  makes  the 
whole  world  kin ; '  and  who,  that  witnessed  her  indignant  denuncia 
tions  of  the  wrongers  of  Hero,  did  not  feel  the  truth  of  the  line  ? 
The  forte  of  Mrs.  Mowatt  is  evidently  high  comedy.  Her  Beatrice 
is  a  proof  of  it ;  her  success  was  complete.  She  was  well  supported 
by  Mr.  Davenport,  whose  Benedick,  albeit  perhaps  scarcely  suffi 
ciently  rollicking  in  the  earlier  scenes,  was  a  well-studied,  gentle 
manly  line  of  acting." 

But  while  all  the  London  papers  bestowed  elaborate 
criticism,  the  oracular  Daily  Times,  which  leads  the  ed 
itorial  van,  preserved  an  ominous  silence.  Its  columns 
wholly  ignored  our  too  republican  existence. 

I  do  not  mean  to  convey  the  impression  that  the 
press,  with  this  exception,  were  unanimous  in  their 
commendations.  The  Morning  Post  could  barely  tol- 


LONDON    CRITICS.  285 

erate  the  American  debutants.  Its  praises  were  of  a 
killing  faintness  —  its  censures  bombastically  loud. 

The  Athenaeum,  at  the  outset  of  our  career,  had  an 
odd  but  caressing  mode  of  chiding  —  wrapping  all  its 
bitters  up  in  sugar  plums.  I  was  pronounced  "  pleas 
ant,  but  wrong;"  designated  as  "a  rose  without  a 
thorn,"  "  a  bee  without  a  sting,"  and  charged  with  a 
"  honey-dew  "  insipidity.  I  presume  that  in  time  the 
wished-for  thorns  sprouted  from  the  rose  stem,  —  the 
unobtruded  sting  gave  some  evidence  of  existence,  — 
for,  before  I  left  London,  the  Athenaeum  became  one 
of  our  warmest  advocates. 

The  Examiner,  usually  an  austere  critic,  bestowed 
upon  us  high  encomiums  until  the  production  of  Fash 
ion.  Then,  upon  my  offending  head,  it  poured  innu 
merable  vials  of  wrath.  The  American  nation,  it 
indignantly  declared,  "  had  crowned  their  countrywo 
man  with  honor  for  a  production  which  would  have 
subjected  Mrs.  Trollope  to  the  penalty  of  tar  and  feath 
ers"! 

Our  engagement  of  six  weeks  came  to  a  close.  On 
the  morning  after  my  benefit  —  our  last  night  —  the 
portentous  silence  of  the  Daily  Times  was  unexpectedly 
broken.  It  suddenly  discovered  that  two  American 
performers  were  actually  fulfilling  a  successful  engage 
ment  at  the  Princesses'  Theatre,  and  condescendingly 
honored  them  with  a  laudatory  notice.  Henceforth  our 
performances  were  regularly  chronicled  in  its  columns. 
The  mysterious  waking  up  for  a  time  remained  as  in 
comprehensible  to  us  as  the  long  slumber. 

At  a  dinner  party  given  by  Mr.  Macready,  we  be 
came  acquainted  with  Mi*.  Oxenford,  the  theatrical 
critic  of  this  influential  journal.  A  species  of  half 


286       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

friendship  sprang  out  of  the  introduction,  and  lasted 
several  years.  Mr.  Oxenford  said  to  me  one  day, 
"  Would  you  like  to  know  how  the  Daily  Times  chanced 
to  notice  you  after  giving  you  the  go-by  through  your 
first  engagement  ?  " 

I  replied,  that  there  were  few  subjects  upon  which 
my  curiosity  had  been  so  much  excited  ;  consequently, 
the  information  would  be  particularly  interesting. 

"  You  are  indebted  to  a  friend,"  he  answered. 

"To  what  friend?" 

"  To  the  Earl  of  Carlisle." 

Mr.  Oxenford  then  told  me  that  he  had  always  lacked 
faith  in  America's  ability  to  produce  theatrical  genius 
of  high  order  —  making  Miss  Cushman  an  exception  to 
this  sweeping  scepticism.  When  he  heard  of  the  new 
American  artists  in  England,  he  thought  it  "  too  great 
a  bore  "  to  go  and  see  them.  A  note  from  the  Earl  of 
Carlisle  induced  him  to  visit  the  theatre  on  my  benefit 
night.  The  contents  of  this  note  he  did  not  repeat,  but 
I  presume  it  requested  for  us  an  impartial  criticism. 
Henry  Clay's  letter  to  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  with  one  of 
my  own,  were,  I  believe,  enclosed  in  the  earl's  missive 
to  the  editor  of  the  Times.  It  was,  then,  to  our  own 
beloved  and  distinguished  countryman  —  not  wholly  to 
a  foreign  nobleman  —  that  we  owed  our  indebtedness 
for  this  important  service. 

Our  engagement  at  the  Princesses'  was  to  be  fol 
lowed  by  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Macready.  A  propo 
sition  was  made  to  us  by  Mr.  Henry  Wallack,  stage 
manager,  that  we  should  consent  to  a  reengagement, 
and  act  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Macready  in  the  plays 
which  he  produced.  This  arrangement  would  have  af 
forded  me  invaluable  opportunities  of  improvement  in 


MR.    MACREADT.  287 

my  vocation.  But  ray  personations  had  been  con 
fined  to  the  Juliets,  Rosalinds,  Desdemonas.  Mr. 
Macready  required  the  support  of  a  Lady  Macbeth, 
Queen  Constance,  Queen  Katharine.  These  were  im- 
bodinients  which  I  had  not  the  temerity  to  attempt  — 
at  least  not  until  I  had  devoted  to  them  the  study  of 
months,  or  rather  years.  I  was  obliged  reluctantly 
to  forego  the  proposed  distinction.  Mrs.  Kemble  filled 
the  place  for  which  I,  confessedly,  had  not  the  indis 
pensable  qualifications. 

Our  personal  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Macready  was 
the  source  of  mingled  gratification  and  advantage.  A 
dinner  was  given  at  his  house  for  the  express  purpose 
of  making  us  acquainted  with  persons  of  literary, 
editorial,  and  social  influence.  Nor  was  this  the  only 
means  by  which  he  generously  endeavored  to  promote 
our  professional  interest. 

Our  second  engagement  in  London  took  place  at  the 
Olympic  Theatre  Royal.  Mr.  Davidson  was  the  nomi 
nal  manager.  The  name  of  the  actual  lessee  and  man 
ager,  a  gentleman  of  family  and  high  literary  standing, 
was  withheld  from  the  public. 

Mr.  Brooke  had  just  made  his  triumphant  London 
debut  at  this  theatre.  During  his  temporary  absence 
in  the  provinces  we  appeared  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons, 
the  manager  of  the  Olympic  not  finding  the  author's 
demand  so  exorbitant  as  it  was  deemed  by  the  manager 
of  the  Princesses'.  But  the  former  was  a  dramatist 
himself.  The  play  was  repeated  six  successive  nights. 
Shortly  after  Mr.  Brooke's  return  we  reengaged,  and 
appeared  in  the  same  plays,  Mr.  Davenport  and  Mr. 
Brooke  sustaining  characters  of  equal  importance. 

This  combination  took  place  for  the  first  representa- 


288      AUTOBIOGKAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

tion  of  a  tragedy  in  five  acts,  by  Henry  Spicer,  Esq., 
author  of  Judge  Jeffreys,  Honesty,  &c.,  entitled  the 
Lords  of  Ellingharn.  The  production  of  that  play 
formed  the  principal  feature  of  our  engagement.  Mr. 
Davenport's  portrayal  of  the  confiding,  noble-minded 
Dudley  Latymer  won  him  much  applause.  Mr.  Brooke 
rendered  the  audacious  villany  of  Laurency  almost 
dangerously  captivating. 

The  death  of  Edith,  in  the  last  act,  ends  a  highly- 
wrought  scene,  full  of  thrillingly  effective  situations.  I 
forgot  the  wisdom  of  reserved  strength  on  the  first  night, 
and  made  too  lavish  an  expenditure.  In  attempting  to 
reach  my  dressing  room  immediately  after  "  the  death," 
I  fell  from  exhaustion,  and,  striking  a  sharp  corner,  cut  a 
deep  gash  near  the  left  temple.  Fortunately,  the  flow 
of  blood  restored  me  to  consciousness.  The  first  sound 
I  heard  on  recovering  was  the  call  boy's  summons  of 
"  Edith,  you  are  called."  In  the  closing  scene  of  the 
play  Edith  is  brought  in  on  her  bier,  to  strike  horror 
to  the  heart  of  her  remorseless  persecutor.  The  bier 
could  not  be  carried  empty  upon  the  stage,  for,  at  a 
certain  point,  it  is  necessary  that  a  veil  should  be  lifted, 
and  Edith's  face  disclosed.  The  manager,  hearing  of 
my  accident,  was  very  anxious  to  procure  a  substitute ; 
but  there  was  no  time,  and  the  discovery  of  a  change 
by  the  audience  would  have  endangered  the  effective 
ness  of  the  last  act,  and  perhaps  the  success  of  the 
play. 

My  head  was  hastily  bound  up,  and  I  was  laid  upon 
the  bier.  The  ghastliness  of  countenance  produced  by 
the  accident  was  particularly  appropriate  to  the  (to  me) 
solemn  occasion.  But  when  Dudley  lifted  the  veil,  and 
beheld  the  bandaged  head  and  the  crimson  drops  that 


LONDON    FRIENDSHIPS.  289 

still  trickled  amongst  Edith's  hair,  he  uttered  an  invol 
untary  exclamation  of  horror  not  set  down  "  i'  the 
book."  The  departed  spirit  of  Edith  must  have  re 
turned  at  the  sound,  for  she  whispered  reassuringly 
through  half-opened  lips,  "  It's  nothing  —  I'm  not  much 
hurt ! " 

The  accident  did  not  prevent  my  responding  to  the 
call  of  the  audience  when  the  play  ended,  though  with 
bandaged  brows  ;  nor  did  it  preclude  my  appearance  in 
the  same  character  on  the  ensuing  night,  in  spite  of  an 
unbecoming  wound,  that  could  not  be  concealed  by  the 
most  ingenious  arrangement  of  curls.  But  this  accident 
is  a  trifle  to  those  which  occur  every  day  in  the  profes 
sion.  There  are  instances  of  men's  continuing  a  per 
formance  on  the  stage  after  they  have  had  a  finger  or 
thumb  accidentally  shot  off.  The  putting  out  of  an  eye. 
or  the  breaking  of  a  limb,  might  possibly  be  considered 
disabling  ;  but  minor  calamities  would  be  looked  upon 
as  too  trivial  to  frustrate  the  enjoyment  of  a  despotic 
audience. 

Our  engagement  at  the  Olympic  continued  until  the 
close  of  the  theatre  for  the  summer  vacation. 

The  entourage  of  friendships  will  render  any  locality 
a  home.  The  most  genial  of  social  surroundings  soon 
made  us  cease  to  feel  like  strangers  in  London.  Hil- 
lard,  in  his  exquisite  book  on  Italy,  remarks,  "  It  is  well 
to  be  chary  of  names.  It  is  an  ungrateful  return  for 
hospitable  attentions  to  print  the  conversation  of  your 
host,"  &e.,  &c.  The  temptation  to  disregard  this  admo 
nition  is  great  in  proportion  to  the  wisdom  of  the  rule 
from  which  it  emanates.  I  have  endeavored,  in  spite 
of  some  natural  inclinations  to  the  contrary,  to  adhere 
to  the  precept,  except  when  the  names  of  parties  men- 
19 


290      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

tioned  were  in  some  way  associated  with  my  own  his 
tory.  In  this  connection  I  may  speak  of  Mary  and 
"William  Howitt.  Their  names  had  been  familiar  words 
from  childhood.  What  a  moment  of  delight  I  thought 
it,  when  I  could  exchange  my  imperfect,  imaginary  por 
traits  of  these  celebrities  for  as  charming  realities  !  We 
first  met  at  a  literary  soiree.  I  knew  that  Mary  Howitt 
was  present.  As  my  eyes  glanced  round  the  room  in 
search  of  her,  they  rested  upon  a  lady  whose  almost 
Quaker-like  simplicity  of  garb,  blandly  serene  counte 
nance,  and  earnest  manner  in  conversation,  made  me 
exclaim,  internally,  "  That  must  be  Mary  Howitt !  "  A 
few  minutes  afterwards,  when  we  were  presented  to 
each  other,  I  found  that  I  was  not  mistaken. 

Her  personal  acquaintance  with  members  of  the  dra 
matic  profession  had  awakened  an  interest  in  the  stage. 
But  in  what  subject,  affecting  human  welfare,  does  not 
Mary  Howitt  take  a  ready  interest  ?  Out  of  what  un 
pretending  ore  would  not  the  alchemy  of  her  philan 
thropic  mind  strike  a  vein  of  gold?  Our  accidental 
introduction  ripened  into  an  attachment  —  at  least  on 
my  side.  We  were  constantly  thrown  into  communica 
tion  ;  and  Mary  Howitt's  visits,  generally  extended  to 
some  hours,  ushered  in  my  "white  days."  She  pro 
posed  to  add  mine  to  the  collection  of  memoirs  that  had 
already  flowed  from  her  graphic  pen,  and  desired  us  to 
furnish  her  with  materials.  In  compliance  with  this  re 
quest,  my  early  history  was  related,  principally  by  Mr. 
Mo  watt.  The  memoir,  which  she  used  to  pronounce  "  a 
labor  of  love,"  was  published  hi  the  People's  Journal. 
William  and  Mary  Howitt  were  at  that  time  the  editors. 

Our  intercourse  with  Mary  Howitt  was  greatly  en 
hanced  by  the  society  of  her  gentle,  artist  daughter, 


THE    HOWITTS.  291 

Anna  Mary  Howitt.  She  had  not  then  contributed  to 
the  literary  world  her  entertaining  book,  entitled,  The 
Art  Student  in  Munich.  It  might  truly  be  said  of  this 
lovely  girl,  — 

"  The  dispositions  she  inherits 
"Which  render  fair  gifts  fairer." 

She  at  once  resembled  and  differed  from  her  mother  in 
character.  Her  philanthropy  was  as  large,  but  more 
discriminating.  Her  energies  were  more  concentrated. 
Her  perceptions  of  the  beautiful  and  true  (are  they  not 
identical  ?)  were  even  quicker.  Her  friendships  were 
built  upon  rocks  —  those  of  her  mother  had  now  and 
then  a  hasty  foundation  in  sand.  Who,  that  has  once 
known  this  youthful  artist  authoress,  can  forget  the  pe 
culiar  fascination  of  her  dove-like  ways  — r  the  frank 
simplicity  which  impressed  one  with  a  sense  of  reserved 
power  to  be  used  at  need  —  the  modest  sensitiveness 
that  shrank  from  display — the  apparent  unconsciousness 
of  her  own  rich  gifts?  She  always  reminded  me  of 
Wordsworth's  description  of  that  Lucy  who  "  dwelt 
alone  beside  the  banks  of  Dove  "  —  although,  in  one  re 
spect,  she  differed —  there  were  many  to  praise  her,  and 
many  to  love. 

Another  friendship,  highly  prized  and  warmly  re 
sponded  to,  and  leaned  upon  with  a  loving  confidence  in 
its  lasting  strength,  was  that  of  a  friend  of  the  Howitts, 
Camilla  Crosland,  —  nee  Camilla  Toulmin,  —  celebrated 
as  a  novelist,  poetess,  editress. 

Mrs.  Crosland  addressed  to  me  the  following  poem, 
one  of  the  most  valued  of  the  effusions  to  which  my 
name  has  been  attached.  My  prospective  return  to 
America  had  formed  the  principal  subject  of  our  con 
versation. 


292  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF   AN   ACTRESS. 


TO  ANNA  CORA  MO  WATT. 

Blow,  western  wind,  athwart  the  wave, — 

Blow,  western  breezes,  still,  — 
And  hold  at  bay  the  envious  bark, 

That  seeks  its  sail  to  fill, 
Whene'er  the  threatened  day  arrives 

(We  dream  of  it  with  pain) 
That  calls  the  bird  of  passage  home, 

Across  th'  Atlantic  main. 

A  bird  —  a  pearl  —  a  "  lily  "  *  flower ! 

We  love  to  liken  thee 
To  something  fresh  from  Nature's  hand 

In  mystic  purity. 
And  Protean  should  be  types,  I  ween, 

Of  thee,  0  richly  gifted ! 
By  triple  rights  and  triple  crowns 

Above  the  herd  uplifted. 

Thy  perfect  beauty  not  the  theme 

On  which  to  fondly  warm ; 
For  common  clay  has  ta'en,  ere  now, 

The  Spartan  Helen's  form. 
And  yet  that  beauty  had  a  spell 

Which  unto  awe  could  reach, 
When  first  I  clasped  thy  hand,  and  heard 

The  music  of  thy  speech. 

It  stayed  the  words  upon  my  tongue, 

My  foot  upon  the  floor ; 
I  could  but  gaze  as  I,  methinks, 

Had  never  gazed  before. 
We  were  not  strangers  —  0,  no,  no ! 

And  cordial  was  thy  clasp  ; 
And  yet,  that  awe  well  nigh  forbade 

My  hand  return  the  grasp. 

I  knew  thee  by  a  knowledge  deep  — 
That  of  thy  printed  page  ; 

*  In  allusion  to  the  pet  name  by  which  I  had  for  some  years  been  called 
by  relatives  and  friends.  The  English  press  had  also,  on  several  occasions, 
used  the  designation  of  the  "  American  lily." 


POEM  BY  CAMILLA  CROSLAND.        293 

But  not  as  yet  had  I  beheld 

Thy  triumphs  of  the  stage. 
Thy  Blanche  was  still  a  hearsay  thing, 

Thy  Pauline  but  a  dream ; 
And  Shakspeare's  "women  dwelt  apart, 

And  not  in  life  might  seem. 

Far  from  conventional,  cold  rules, 

That  tell  of  paint  and  glare, 
And  all  the  playhouse  tricks  of  trade, 

And  player's  studied  care, 
Thy  poet  soul  can  mould  and  bring 

The  poet's  thought  to  life, 
As  when  Italian  Juliet  loves, 

And  dies  a  hapless  wife  ;  — 

Or  chaste  Virginia,  tyrant-doomed, 

Amid  her  household  gods, 
Most  desolate,  yet  undismayed, 

By  Roman  lictor's  rods  ! 
To  goodness,  greatness,  love,  and  faith, 

Thy  heart  responsive  bends  ; 
Thy  teaman's  nature  is  the  spell 

That  with  thy  genius  blends,  — 

The  spell  that  binds  our  hearts  to  thee 

With  chains  more  strong  than  steel, 
And  girds  thee  round  with  British  love, 

And  friends  both  warm  and  leal, 
Who  bid  the  western  breeze  to  blow 

Athwart  the  Atlantic  main, 
And  envy  thy  broad  land  the  right 

To  lure  thee  back  again. 

Five  years  have  added  their  daily  strength  to  the  bond 
of  affection  that  links  Camilla  Crosland  with  all  my 
most  cherished  English  associations.  Her  name  has 
ever  a  harp-like  sound  in  my  ears,  and  brings  back  her 
own  tones,  — 

"  A  voice  of  holy  sweetness,  turning  common  words  to  grace." 
There  are  high  arguments  in  her  life  to  disprove  the 


294      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTKESS. 

supposed  incompatibility  of  literary  pursuits  with  home 
avocations  —  more  emphatically  womanly.  These  are 
manifested  in  the  smiling  patience  with  which  she  has 
encountered  "a  sea  of  trials,"  whose  tide  but  ebbed 
to  flow  again;  the  simple  dignity  with  which  she  re 
ceives  the  homage  due  to  her  talents;  the  "gracious 
household  ways"  that  render  beautiful  her  domestic 
existence.  But  I  may  not  linger  upon  this  theme, 
though  it  is  one  fraught  with  so  many  holy  and  touching 
memories. 

At  the  Theatre  Royal,  Marylebone,  Mr.  Macready 
played  his  London  farewell  previous  to  his  departure  for 
America.  The  engagement  was  one  of  the  most  bril 
liant  on  record.  Mrs.  Warner  occupied  the  managerial 
chair  at  this  theatre  for  several  seasons.  Her  untiring 
exertions  and  Mr.  Macready's  advent  drew  a  high  class 
of  audiences  to  the  Marylebone.  The  theatre  is  situ 
ated  at  the  "  West  End  "  of  London.  Other  stars  of 
note  succeeded  Mr.  Macready  and  Mrs.  Warner,  and  the 
audience  which  they  first  attracted  became  permanent. 

An  advantageous  offer  was  made  to  us  by  the  Mary 
lebone  management  and  accepted.  We  opened  in  As 
You  Like  It.  Our  engagement  of  twelve  nights  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  reengagement  of  twelve  more,  and  immedi 
ately  after  by  a  third  engagement.  We  became  estab 
lished  favorites  with  the  audience,  and  a  proposition  was 
made  for  us  to  become  the  permanent  "  stars "  of  the 
establishment  for  the  next  five  months,  appearing  every 
night. 

I  ought  to  mention  that  the  most  eminent  London 
stars  eschew  the  comet-like  course  adopted  in  the  United 
States.  If  their  attraction  is  considered  sufficiently 
strong,  they  engage  for  the  season.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


THE    SHADOW   UPON   THE   TTALL.  295 

Kean  were  at  this  period  the  fixed  stars  of  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre. 

The  one  hundred  and  twenty  odd  nights  which  were 
now  to  be  occupied  in  the  same  locality  demanded  a 
supply  of  new  parts.  In  two  or  three  instances,  the 
choice  of  plays  was  left  to  the  management.  I  — 
not  possessing  Mr.  Davenport's  remarkable  versatility, 
which  enabled  him  to  imbody  with  equal  ease  an 
Othello  or  a  Yankee,  a  cardinal  or  a  sailor  —  was,  con 
sequently,  the  sufferer. 

On  one  occasion  the  manager  selected  a  drama  by 
Serle,  entitled  the  Shadow  upon  the  Wall.  The  char 
acter  of  the  heroine  had  been  very  successfully  repre 
sented  by  Mrs.  Keeley ;  but  it  was  as  much  out  of  my 
range  as  Lady  Macbeth  would  be  out  of  hers.  I  en 
deavored  in  vain  to  idealize  the  cottage  Cicely ;  I  liked 
to  deal  with  subtleties  in  my  delineations,  and  the 
breadth  of  melodrama  eluded  my  reach.  At  one  cli 
max  of  the  play,  Cicely,  wandering  through  a  deep  glen, 
beholds  the  shadow  of  the  murderer  on  a  ruined  wall. 
With  a  loud  shriek  she  stands  —  that  is  to  say,  it  is  her 
duty  to  stand  —  transfixed  in  an  attitude  of  horror.  I 
was  too  nearsighted  to  distinguish  the  shadow,  and 
could  not  be  certain  when  it  appeared,  for  I  occupied 
the  stage  alone.  A  person  was  stationed  behind  the 
scenes,  near  one  of  the  entrances,  to  apprise  me  in  a 
whisper  when  the  shadow  "  came  on ; "  but  not  being 
wrought  up  to  the  requisite  pitch  of  terror  by  the  an 
nouncement  in  a  gentle  whisper  that  it  was  time  to  be 
frightened,  the  only  scream  I  could  execute  was  a  very 
dubious  exclamation,  that  probably  indicated  nothing 
more  distressing  than  a  sudden  pinch.  The  "attitude 
of  horror  "  was  an  equally  tame  and  amiable  expression 


296       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

of  alarm.  The  "shadow  scene"  consequently  lost  all 
its  effect,  though  I  am  told  that  it  was  particularly 
startling  when  Mrs.  Keeley  enacted  Cicely. 

I  found,  while  studying  the  character,  that  it  was  not 
one  in  which  I  was  likely  to  advance  my  dramatic  repu 
tation.  It  occurred  to  me  to  "  write  in  "  a  few  speeches 
which  I  could  render  telling  by  their  delivery.  As  I 
hoped,  they  drew  down  the  plaudits  of  the  audience, 
who  were  ignorant  of  the  interpolations.  I  was  con 
gratulating  myself,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  play,  upon 
the  dexterous  (as  I  thought)  introductions,  when,  to  my 
surprise  and  confusion,  I  was  informed  that  the  author 
was  in  the  theatre,  and  desired  to  be  presented  to  me. 
He  had  witnessed  the  performance ;  had  heard  the 
trashy  lines  that  I  had  passed  off  as  his ;  and  probably, 
in  his  heart,  meditated  some  condign  punishment  for  my 
presumption.  I  would,  have  done  any  thing  reasonable 
or  unreasonable  to  avoid  the  introduction ;  but  there  was 
no  escape.  When  the  offended  dramatist  was  brought 
behind  the  scenes,  his  frigid  bearing,  and  stern,  rebuking 
countenance  did  not  tend  to  reestablish  my  self-posses 
sion.  He  looked  as  though  he  longed  to  say,  "  Where 
did  you  get  those  fine  claptrap  speeches  with  which 
you  have  thought  fit  to  interlard  my  play?"  and  I 
wanted  to  answer,  in  a  penitential  tone,  "  Pardon  what  I 
have  spoke  ! "  &c.  But  we  were  neither  of  us  standing 
in  Madame  de  Genlis's  Palace  of  Truth,  and  we  could 
only  guess  at  each  other's  thoughts.  In  that  faculty  my 
transatlantic  origin  gave  me  the  advantage.  I  read  such 
unqualified  condemnations  in  his  mind  that  I  never  after 
ventured  to  utter  more  than  was  "  set  down "  by  the 
author. 

In   spite  of   my  shortcomings   as    Cicely,  the   play 


PRODUCTION"  OF  ARMAND  IN  LONDON. f   297 

was  rendered  sufficiently  attractive,  by  Mr.  Davenport's 
thrilling  personation  of  Luke,  to  be  repeated  several 
times.  The  critics  courteously  ignored  my  failure ;  but 
that  did  not  render  the  mortification  less  poignant  to 
myself. 

"When  the  season  was  at  its  height,  Armand  was 
placed  in  rehearsal.  It  had  first  been  perused  and  can 
vassed  by  four  distinguished  London  critics.  They 
were  authors  themselves,  and  three  of  them  dramatic 
authors.  The  play  was  revised  by  one  of  their  number ; 
or  rather,  it  was  marked  abundantly  for  my  revision. 
A  speech  was  pointed  out  which  bears  strong  resem 
blance  to  a  passage  in  Byron's  Sardanapalus.  The 
imitation  was  an  unintentional  one.  I  proposed  ex 
punging  the  lines  entirely,  but  was  overruled  by  the 
judgment  of  my  critics.  I  next  attempted  to  alter  them ; 
but  the  amendment  was  not  approved.  They  finally 
decided  that  the  passage  should  stand  undefended  as  it 
was  originally  written. 

The  play  was  put  upon  the  stage  after  many  labori 
ous  rehearsals.  The  scenery  and  stage  appointments 
were  all  of  the  most  costly  character.  The  "  cast"  was 
unexceptionable.  All  the  actors  lent  their  hearty  coop 
eration.  The  play  could  only  fail  through  its  own  in 
trinsic  want  of  merit. 

I  pass  over  the  days  of  nervous  unrest,  of  feverish 
anxiety,  during  its  preparation.  For  an  American,  and 
a  woman,  to  aim  at  double  distinction,  as  actress  and 
dramatist,  before  a  London  tribunal,  was,  to  say  the  least, 
a  bold  experiment. 

On  the  morning  of  the  representation,  my  flagging 
spirits  were  suddenly  raised  by  a  note  from  a  gentleman 
distinguished  as  a  divine  a  man  of  letters,  and  member  of 


298      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Parliament,  Mr.  W.  J.  Fox.  It  accompanied  the  man 
uscript  of  Armand,  which  he  had  requested  the  privi 
lege  of  reading.  The  note  contained  these  words :  — 

DEAR  MRS.  MOWATT. 

Thanks  for  the  sight  of  this.     "  'Tis  not  in  mortals  to 
command  success,"  but  you  have  assuredly  deserved  it. 
Yours,  sincerely, 

W.  J.  FOX, 

Many  a  time  that  day  was  this  precious  little  docu 
ment  reperused ;  and  if  I  read  it  with  glistening  eyes 
and  a  swelling  heart,  was  not  the  weakness  a  pardonable 
one? 

Armand  was  produced  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Mary- 
lebone,  January  18,  1849.  The  theatre  was  crammed 
frofti  pit  to  dome.  The  faces  of  well-known  London 
literati  were  conspicuously  scattered  about  the  house. 
As  soon  as  the  curtain  rose,  this  intelligence  was  brought 
to  my  dressing  room.  But  for  the  note  of  Mr.  Fox,  I 
should  probably  have  had  another  attack  of  "  stage 
fright,"  and,  by  that  fatal  panic,  insured  the  failure  of 
the  play.  To  be  told  from  such  a  source  that  I  had 
"  deserved  success,"  sustained  and  inspired  me. 

At  the  close  of  the  second  act,  the  actors,  who  had 
assembled  in  a  body  around  the  wings  to  witness  the 
representation,  assured  me  that  "  the  play  was  safe ;  the 
audience  were  in  such  a  capital  humor,  and  so  attentive." 
To  rivet  the  attention  of  an  audience  is  always  a  gigan 
tic  step  towards  success ;  for 

ft  The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark 
When  neither  is  attended." 

With  what  a  thrill  of  delight  I  watched  the  green 


CRITIQUE   BY   TV.   J.   FOX.  299 

curtain  fall  upon  the  fifth  act  !  After  I  once  began  to 
feel  my  full  responsibilities  as  an  artist,  the  nightly  de 
scent  of  this  welcome  green  curtain  became  one  of  the 
ecstatic  moments  of  my  existence.  It  always  gave  me 
the  delicious  sense 

"  Of  trial  past,  of  duty  done  !  " 

and  brought  the  calm  of  well-earned  repose. 

At  our  summons  before  the  curtain,  when  we  were 
told  in  cheers  that  the  double  victory  had  been  achieved, 
Mr.  Davenport  led  me  through  a  perfect  parterre  of 
scattered  flowers  and  garlands.  Amongst  them  I  recog 
nized  a  delicate  wreath,  of  classic  form,  made  of  fresh 
ivy  leaves.  I  knew  that  it  had  been  woven  by  no 
hand  save  that  of  Mary  Howitt's  artist  daughter.  It 
was  her  own  favorite  headdress  in  society.  To  many 
another  floral  band  and  bouquet  were  attached  the  names 
of  ever-to-be-remembered  London  friends. 

Reviews  of  the  play,  with  extracts,  appeared  the  next 
morning  in  almost  every  journal  in  London.  Their 
tenor  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  twenty-two 
of  these  notices  were  reprinted  upon  the  ample  play 
bills  during  the  run  of  the  play.  The  Daily  Times  gave 
a  long  and  complimentary  notice,  with  extracts.  The 
notice  in  the  Examiner  was  written  by  TV.  J.  Fox, 
M.  P.  ;  and  this  I  quote,  on  account  of  the  high  source 
from  which  it  emanated  :  — 


THEATBE.—  On  Thursday  night,  a  new  play,  by 
Mrs.  Mowatt,  the  American  actress,  was  produced  at  this  theatre, 
with  complete  and  triumphant  success.  It  is  entitled  Armand,  or 
the  Peer  and  the  Peasant,  and  the  contrast  intimated  in  the  second 
title  is  wrought  out  very  effectively  by  scenes  and  characters  dis 
playing  the  best  side  of  rural  life,  and  the  profligate  manners  of 
the  court  of  Louis  XV.  These  uncongenial  elements  are  skilfully 


300      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

blended  by  a  plot  which  makes  Blanche,  the  village  May  Queen,  the 
unacknowledged  daughter  of  Duke  de  Richelieu,  and  the  peasant 
Armand  her  successful  lover,  notwithstanding  the  disparity  of  birth, 
and  tlje  difficulties  interposed  by  the  passion  of  the  monarch 
himself. 

"  The  incidents  by  which  this  is  accomplished  have  less  of  novelty 
in  themselves  than  in  their  combination ;  and  they  are  adapted  to 
the  author's  purpose  with  great  felicity.  We  have  to  overlook 
some  few  anachronisms,  both  social  and  moral ;  for  the  rapid  ad 
vancement  of  Armand  to  high  rank  in  the  army,  and  the  tone  of 
thought  and  sentiment  ascribed  both  to  him  and  Blanche,  properly 
belong  to  a  post  revolutionary  period  in  French  history.  Still,  their 
juxtaposition  with  the  corruptions  of  the  monarchy  is  so  happily 
rendered  subservient  to  the  poetical  unity  of  the  drama  as  to  silence 
criticism. 

"  The  result  is  a  play  of  lively,  intense,  and  continuous  interest, 
which  is  more  easily  characterized  than  described.  A  profound  phi 
losophy  of  human  nature,  the  terrific  war  of  stormiest  passion,  and 
the  magnificent  bursts  of  poetry  may  not  be  there.  Indeed,  where 
are  they,  save  in  the  few  greatest  masters  of  dramatic  magic  ?  But 
we  have,  instead,  living  and  suggestive  outlines  of  character,  scenes 
of  pathos  whose  power  is  testified  by  the  emotions  of  the  audience, 
and  a  pervading  simplicity,  truth,  and  loveliness,  both  of  thought 
and  language,  which  act  as  a  charm,  and  are  full  of  fascination. 
This  it  is  which  leaves  the  most  distinct  and  abiding  impression. 
Over  the  whole,  though  dangerous  themes  have  sometimes  to  be 
dealt  with,  there  is  an  air  of  purity,  refinement,  and  tenderness. 
The  most  religious  parent  might  take  his  child  to  such  a  play. 
And  yet  the  common  craving  for  theatrical  excitement  runs  no 
risk  of  being  ungratified. 

"  Mrs.  Mowatt  is  too  little  known  to  London  playgoers  for  it  to 
be  generally  understood  how  completely  she  would  be  identified 
with  her  own  heroine.  In  the  simplicity,  sweetness,  earnestness, 
the  meek  endurance,  the  moral  energy,  the  devoted  love,  there 
seems  no  acting,  but  the  direct  and  spontanepus  expression  of  indi 
vidual  character.  There  is  freshness,  beauty,  and  reality,  which  the 
most  elaborate  art  cannot  rival.  We  hope  that  the  charm  of  this 
personation,  together  with  the  rare  fact  of  success,  both  as  actress 
and  authoress,  may  lead  to  better  opportunities  than  have  yet 
occurred  for  Mrs.  Mowatt's  winning  a  just  appreciation  of  her 
merits  from  metropolitan  audiences. 

"  Mr.  Davenport  rendered  able  support  to  the  piece  as  Armand, 
the  artisan.  He  maintained  a  frank,  manly  bearing,  without  de 
generating  into  insolence ;  and,  to  our  perceptions,  without  that 


ARMAND.  301 

transatlantic  exaggeration  \vhich  haunts  the  imagination  of  some 
of  our  critics,  who  might  find  the  reality  nearer  home.  All  the 
actors  and  actresses  engaged  appeared  to  exert  themselves  as 
heartily  as  it  proved  successfully  for  the  general  effect.  And  Miss 
Villars  deserves  especial  notice  for  her  lively  delineation  of  an 
affected  page  of  the  old  regime.  The  play  was  well  got  up,  and 
some  of  the  scenery  was  highly  creditable.  The  authoress,  at  the 
conclusion,  was  almost  smothered  with  bouquets  and  wreaths,  and 
the  repetition  of  the  play  every  evening  was  announced  with 
acclamations." 

Armand  was  enacted  twenty-one  nights.  The  title 
of  the  play  in  America  had  been  Armand,  or  the 
Child  of  the  People.  This  second  title  could  not  obtain 
a  license  in  London,  and  was  changed  to  the  Peer  and 
the  Peasant.  Various  passages,  which  had  been  pro 
nounced  upon  the  stage  in  New  York  and  Boston,  were 
expunged  by  the  English  licenser,  on  account  of  their 
anti-monarchical  tendency.  They  were  necessarily  omit 
ted  in  London.  Some  of  them  were  afterwards  restored 
before  a  Dublin  audience,  and  met  with  a  most  uproar 
ious  response.  Armand  was  published  in  London  im 
mediately  after  its  first  representation.  The  copies 
nightly  sold  at  the  door  of  the  theatre  caused  great  an 
noyance  to  the  dramatic  representatives  of  the  play.  It 
is  a  singular  fact,  that  if  the  eye  of  an  actor  chances  to 
rest  upon  an  individual  in  the  boxes  who  is  deeply  ab 
sorbed  in  a  book,  and  if  the  actor  fancies  that  book  is 
of  the  play  then  performing,  he  will  almost  invariably 
forget  his  part,  though  he  may  have  enacted  it  correctly 
dozens  of  times.  Sometimes  the  mere  leaf-turning  of 
books  in  the  hands  of  the  audience  will  throw  a  whole 
company  into  confusion,  and  the  prompter's  voice  may 
be  heard  vainly  attempting  to  plead  the  cause  of  the 
author. 

As  soon  as  I  discovered  this  professional  peculiarity, 


302 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF   AN   ACTRESS. 


I  endeavored  to  stop  the  sale  of  Armand,  but  unsuccess 
fully,  as  the  English  copyright  had  been  sold. 

An  American  prompter  told  me  that  one  night  a 
company  to  which  he  was  attached  were  acting  a 
comedy  which  had  been  hastily  put  upon  the  stage. 
The  actors  were  tolerably  perfect  in  their  parts.  But 
it  chanced  that  an  old  gentleman  sat  in  the  stage  box, 
with  spectacles  on  nose,  poring  over  a  book,  evidently 
intent  upon  following  the  play.  The  sight  of  this  stu 
dious  individual  disconcerted  them  so  much  that,  in 
theatrical  parlance,  several  "stuck  dead"  in  the  few 
first  scenes.  The  prompter,  after  making  vain  efforts 
to  unravel  the  entangled  dialogue,  thought  of  a  strata 
gem  to  rid  the  actors  of  the  confusing  presence.  He 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  stage  box,  and,  after  many 
apologies,  informed  the  venerable  gentleman  within 
that  the  prompt  book  had  accidentally  been  lost,  and  it 
was  feared  the  performance  could  not  continue,  unless, 
indeed,  he  kindly  loaned  the  manager  his  book. 

The  book  was  instantly  yielded  up.  The  treacherous 
memories  of  the  company  suddenly  became  faithful,  and 
the  play  proceeded  and  ended  without  further  inter 
ruption. 

Armand  was  reproduced  before  the  close  of  the  sea 
son,  and  I  was  offered  a  benefit,  the  proceeds  of  which 
were  to  be  devoted  to  the  purchase  of  a  silver  vase  in 
commemoration  of  the  London  success  of  the  American 
production.  Every  seat  was  engaged  long  before  the 
appointed  night.  The  largest  amount  that  the  theatre 
would  hold  when  densely  crowded  being  ascertained, 
the  vase  was  purchased  in  advance.  The  presentation 
took  place  on  the  night  of  the  benefit,  and  greatly  added 
to  the  eclat  of  the  occasion. 


PRESENTATION    OF    SILVER   VASE.  303 

It  is  a  magnificent  vase  of  silver,  lined  with  gold, 
surmounted  by  a  statuette  of  Shakspeare.  The  dedi 
cation  engraved  upon  one  side  of  the  vase  states  that  it 
is  presented  "  to  Anna  Cora  Mowatt,  for  her  services 
to  the  drama  as  authoress  and  actress,  and  as  a  record 
that  worth  and  genius  from  every  land  will  ever  be 
honored  in  England." 

The  opposite  side  is  inscribed  with  the  following  lines 
from  Measure  for  Measure :  — 

"  In  her  youth 

There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect 
Such  as  moves  men;  besides,  she  has  prosperous  art 
When  she  would  play  •with  reason  and  discourse  ; 
And  well  she  can  persuade." 

The  season  at  the  Marylebone  closed  this  year  with 
the  production  of  the  Witch  Wife,  a  drama  in  five 
acts,  by  Henry  Spicer,  Esq.  It  was  successfully  repre 
sented.  Mr.  Davenport  and  myself  enacted  the  lead 
ing  characters.  The  published  play  is  prefaced  by  a 
complimentary  dedication  to  the  personator  of  the 
heroine. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

Travelling.  —  Stratford  upon  Avon.  —  An  Avon  Boatman's  Ideas  of 
Shakspeare.  —  Housekeeper  of  Warwick  Castle,  and  Mrs.  Siddons. 
—  Isle  of  Wight.  —  Cottage  at  Richmond.  —  Vigorous  Health.  — 
Reopening  of  the  Marylebone.  —  A  Fairy-like  Dressing  Room.  — 
Velasco.  —  Virginia.  —  Romeo  and  Juliet.  —  Close  of  the  Season.  — 
Entertainment  upon  the  Stage.  —  A  Ballet  Girl  nearly  burned  to 
Death.  —  Mrs.  Renshaw's  Presence  of  Mind  and  Heroism.  —  Gen 
eral  Opinion  of  Ballet  Girls. — A  few  Truths  concerning  the  Pro 
fession.  — History  of  Georgina,  the  Ballet  Girl. 

A  PORTION  of  the  summer  theatrical  vacation  was 
passed  in  travelling.  Our  first  visit  was  to  the  birth 
place  of  the  great  prince  of  dramatists,  whose  tran 
scendent  genius  of  itself  consecrates  the  stage.  Dur 
ing  one  of  our  drives  through  Stratford  our  carriage 
chanced  to  be  filled  with  water  lilies,  just  gathered  at 
Victoria  Spa.  By  a  sudden  impulse  they  were  woven 
by  me  into  a  wreath,  and  flung  at  Shakspeare's  door. 
The  old  woman  who  has  charge  of  the  house  spied  the 
snowy  token,  and  carried  it  to  the  room  which  is  exhib 
ited  as  the  one  in  which  Shakspeare  was  born. 

At  Ann  Hath  a  way's  cottage  we  drank  from  that  well 
of  most  pellucid  water  beside  which  she  and  her  in 
spired  poet-lover  may  often  have  stood. 

The  sunny  portion  of  one  day  was  spent  in  rowing 
on  the  Avon.  The  stream  bore  no  white  water  lilies 
on  its  bosom,  but  was  profusely  gemmed  with  a  flower 
of  cerulean  blue,  resembling  the  hyacinth.  A  few  of 

(304) 


STRATFORD    UPON   AVON.  305 

these  were  gathered  as  mementoes.  We  were  amused 
with  our  boatman's  garrulity.  His  ideas  of  Shakspeare 
were  irreverent  to  a  degree  that  turned  indignation  into 
mirth.  He  said  he  believed  that  some  man  of  the 
name  of  Shakspeare  did  live  in  that  butcher's  shop  ; 
but,  as  far  as  he  could  find  out,  the  man  didn't  differ 
particularly  from  other  folks.  As  for  the  trash  that 
was  shown  strangers  as  having  belonged  to  Mr.  Shak 
speare,  it  had  all  been  bought  up  at  sales  of  old  furni 
ture  —  he  knew  that  for  a  fact.  When  he  discovered 
that  we  were  Americans,  he  asked  many  questions  con 
cerning  the  far-off  El  Dorado,  and  ended  with,  "  Well, 
I  should  like  to  go  to  America  once ;  and  my  wife  says 
she  'has  no  objection  to  go,  if  she  can  come  home  at 
night  to  sleep." 

At  Charlecote  we  passed  several  hours ;  several 
more  amongst  the  grass-grown  ruins  of  Kenilworth  Cas 
tle  ;  and  the  rest  of  the  day  at  Guy's  Cliff  and  Warwick 
Castle.  A  beautiful  portrait  of  Mrs.  Siddons  was 
pointed  out  to  us  at  the  latter  place  by  the  housekeep 
er,  who  assured  us  that  Mrs.  Siddons  had  resided  in 
that  very  castle  in  the  capacity  of  lady's  maid.  An 
expression  of  incredulity  from  one  of  our  party  quite 
incensed  the  narrator.  Her  'fertile  imagination  fur 
nished  us  a  marvellous  sketch  of  the  early  life  of  the 
Queen  of  Tragedy.  The  biographer  who  complained 
that  her  history  lacked  incident  might  have  found  an 
embarras  de  richesses  with  such  a  treasury.  The  genu 
ineness  of  the  materials,  and  that  of  the  Shakspearian 
curiosities,  would  probably  have  weighed  alike  in  the 
balance  of  truth. 

At  the  Isle  of  Wight  —  the  Eden  of  England  —  we 
passed  several  weeks  of  enchantment.     The  circuit  of 
20 


306      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

the  island  was  made  in  daily  jaunts.  During  these 
excursions,  our  memories  were  richly  stored  with  pic 
tures  of  varied  loveliness.  Through  gradual  transitions, 
the  scenic  beauty  of  the  island  glides  from  the  wildly 
sublime  to  the  softly  beautiful. 

The  rest  of  the  summer  flew  merrily  by  at  a  pretty 
furnished  cottage,  hired  for  the  season,  in  Richmond. 
How  charming  I  thought  that  little  cottage,  with  its 
porch  and  windows  draped  with  jasmine  vines  !  Now 
and  then  the  wind  would  loosen  festoons  of  the  starry 
flowers  and  blow  them  into  the  window,  as  if  inviting 
us  to  pluck  them.  Their  fragrance  circled  the  cottage 
with  a  perfumed  zone. 

Every  moonlight  evening  we  rowed  upon  the  Thames, 
passing  Pope's  Villa  and  other  memorable  localities. 
And  every  sunshiny  day  found  us  wandering  through 
the  exquisite  Kew  Gardens,  or  the  magnificent  grounds 
of  Hampton  Court,  or  beside  the  romantic  "Vir 
ginia  Water,"  or  wherever  Nature  and  Art  clasped 
hands  in  picturesque  union  within  our  reach. 

During  this  summer,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I 
comprehended  the  delightful  interpretation  of  the  words 
"  perfect  health."  What  the  poet  meant  to  convey  by 
the  "  fresh,  joyous  sense  of  being,"  was  a  new  revela 
tion  to  me.  The  English  climate  seemed  to  have  en 
dowed  me  with  an  elasticity  and  strength  which  defied 
fatigue.  The  distance  I  could  walk  became  problemat 
ical.  I  could  undergo  any  amount  of  hill  climbing,  or 
wagon  jolting,  or  horseback  galloping.  The  "  fragile 
form,"  so  often  a  subject  of  pitying  regret  to  my  Eng 
lish  friends,  —  and  which  the  mistress  of  the  wardrobe, 
on  the  evening  of  my  London  debut,  had  aptly  likened 
to  a  "  beau  stalk,"  —  now  rounded  into  robustness.  My 


PERFECT    HEALTH.  307 

mind  and  spirits  sympathetically  partook  of  the  vigor 
that  animated  my  frame.  This  summer  seemed  to  me 
like  a  Sabbath  rest  after  the  labor,  exhaustion,  trials  of 
the  six  working  days  appointed  for  toil.  Strange  that 
no  prophetic  voice  within  whispered  that  such  halcyon 
calm  might  precede  life's  heaviest  storms !  No  warn 
ing  angel  cried, — 

"  0  joyful  heart,  exult  not  so  ! 

Mistrust  that  prospect  fair ; 
It  is  the  lure  of  death  and  -woe, 
The  ambush  of  despair ;  "  *  — 

or  if  he  did,  the  voice  could  not  reach  my  clay-clouded 
senses. 

Our  engagement  at  the  Marylebone  Theatre  had 
been  renewed  for  another  year.  After  that  we  pro 
posed  to  return  to  America.  Our  new  contract  stipu 
lated  that  I  should  only  appear  four  nights  in  the  week. 

The  Olympic  Theatre  had  been  destroyed  by  fire,  and 
was  rebuilding.  The  lessee  and  manager  of  the  Mary 
lebone  had  also  become  its  lessee.  The  new  edifice 
was  to  be  completed  by  Christmas.  We  were  to  ap 
pear  at  the  Marylebone  from  September  until  Decem 
ber  —  then  open  the  new  Olympic,  and  remain  there 
until  the  close  of  the  season. 

While  Mr.  Mowatt  was  discussing  with  the  manager 
the  terms  of  the  engagement,  I  expressed  my  surprise 
at  the  total  disregard  of  all  managers  for  the  private 
comfort  of  the  unfortunate  beings  yclept  "stars."  I 
fancy  I  made  some  rather  satirical  comments  upon  the 
style  of  dressing  rooms  in  which  I  had  spent  the  larger 
portion  of  so  many  evenings  for  the  last  few  years.  I 

*  From  Epes  Sargent's  "  Songs  of  the  Sea,  and  other  Poems." 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF   AN   ACTRESS. 

amused  myself  with  giving  a  burlesque  description  of 
some  of  the  under-ground  cells  and  attic  corners  which 
I  had  been  forced  to  occupy,  while  being  arrayed  in 
the  purple  and  gold  of  royalty  —  butterfly  splendors 
compressed  into  the  narrowest  of  chrysalis  shells. 

The  manager,  supposing  that  I  rebelled  at  these  dis 
comforts  as  much  as  I  ironically  pretended,  made  an 
swer,  "If  you  conclude  to  remain  next  season,  the 
theatre  shall  boast  of  a  '  star  dressing  room '  such  as 
never  before  was  seen." 

I  answered,  laughingly,  "I  suppose  you  will  send 
some  profile  stage  properties  to  my  room,  and  ask  me  to 
be  as  good  natured  as  the  audience,  and  believe  them  to 
be  what  they  seem  —  accepting  them  at  theatrical 
valuation ! " 

We  removed  to  London  for  the  opening  of  the  thea 
tre  early  in  September.  I  was  not  to  act  on  the  first 
night,  but  had  consented  to  appear  upon  the  stage  dur 
ing  the  singing  of  "  God  save  the  Queen."  This  anthem 
is  always  sung  by  the  whole  company  at  the  opening  of 
every  English  theatre. 

The  chamber  appropriated  to  the  use  of  the  star  was 
a  small  apartment  partitioned  off  from  the  greenroom. 
The  greenroom  is  the  theatrical  drawing  room,  where 
the  company  assemble  during  the  play,  and  where  their 
"  call "  for  the  stage  is  made.  It  is  very  seldom  fre 
quented  by  "  stars."  They  generally  retire  from  the 
stage  to  their  own  rooms. 

The  apartment  to  which  I  was  conducted  on  reach 
ing  the  theatre  had  undergone  a  transformation  worthy 
of  Aladdin's  lamp.  The  carpet  was  of  roses  on  a  bed 
of  moss  —  the  paper  on  the  walls  represented  panels 
formed  of  the  loveliest  bouquets  —  a  wreath  of  flow- 


A   FAIRY-LIKE   DRESSING   ROOM.  309 

ers  to  match  surrounded  the  ceiling  —  the  gaslights 
streamed  through  ornaments  shaped  like  lilies  —  a 
most  lifelike  group  of  water  lilies,  executed  by  Valen 
tine  Bartholomew,  flower  painter  to  her  majesty,  hung 
upon  the  wall  —  and  four  mirrors  reflected  the  furni 
ture  of  pale-blue  satin  and  gold. 

I  stood  a  while  gazing  in  dazzled  astonishment.  I 
had  wished  for  comfort,  not  splendor,  and  was  ungrate 
ful  enough  to  doubt  that  they  had  been,  in  this  instance, 
united.  The  suspicion  proved  correct.  The  boudoir 
dressing  chamber  became  a  sort  of  show  room,  which 
crowds  of  visitors  nightly  begged  the  privilege  of  inspect 
ing.  The  furniture  was  too  costly  for  any  but  the  most 
careful  use.  My  meek  maid  (the  same  I  mentioned  in 
a  previous  chapter)  used  to  say,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  don't  like 
fairyland  where  there's  real  work  going  on.  I  don't  dare 
to  move  any  more  than  if  I  were  in  a  glass  house.  Every 
thing  looks  as  brittle  as  if  it  would  break  by  looking  at  it ! " 

King  Midas  found  it  inconvenient  to  eat  gold  instead 
of  bread.  I  was  punished  in  a  somewhat  similar  fashion  ; 
discovering  the  comfortlessness  of  inappropriate  magnifi 
cence. 

The  theatre  opened  with  Epes  Sargent's  tragedy  of 
Velasco.  Fanny  Viniug  personated  Isidora,  (of  which 
Ellen  Tree  was  the  original  in  America,)  and  Mr.  Da 
venport  enacted  Velasco.  Both  characters  were  finely 
delineated.  The  play  found  favor  with  the  public,  and 
was  several  times  repeated. 

A  number  of  new  plays  were  produced,  with  various 
degrees  of  success,  during  this  season.  But  the  palm 
was  won  by  the  classic  tragedy  of  Virginia,  translated 
from  the  French  of  Mr.  Latour  de  St.  Ybars,  by  John 
Oxenford,  Esq.  M.  Latour  dramatized  the  Roman 


310       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

story  of  Virginia  for  Mademoiselle  Rachel.  The  chief 
interest  is  made  to  turn  upon  the  female  character,  and 
all  opportunities  afforded  by  the  historical  narrative  for 
portraying  the  tender  and  heroic  passions  are  carefully 
improved.  Mr.  Davenport  enacted  Virginius,  and  I 
Virginia. 

Shakspeare's  Cymbeline  and  Twelfth  Night  were 
revived,  and  ran  for  some  nights.  But  the  most  emi 
nently  successful  of  all  our  Shakspearian  revivals  was 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  produced  in  a  style  of  magnificence, 
as  regards  scenery  and  stage  appointments,  that  can 
seldom  have  been  equalled  in  any  theatre.  Miss  Fanny 
Vining  gave  a  fervid  impersonation  of  the  impassioned 
Romeo ;  nor  did  her  sex  destroy  the  illusion,  as  might 
have  been  supposed.  I  never  knew  the  tragedy  s.o 
popular  with  the  public,  and  never  had  a  Romeo  whom 
I  liked  so  well.  Mr.  Davenport  played  Mercutio,  and 
I  Juliet.  The  play  was  repeated  a  number  of  nights  in 
succession. 

The  season  closed  early  in  December,  with  Mr. 
Davenport's  benefit  —  the  house  overflowing  on  the  oc 
casion.  A  portion  of  the  company  were  engaged  for  the 
new  Olympic.  That  theatre  was  to  open  at  Christmas, 
under  the  same  management  as  the  Marylebone. 

The  manager,  at  the  termination  of  this  prosperous 
season,  desired  to  express  his  acknowledgments  to  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  company  and  artisans  en 
gaged  in  the  theatre.  They  accordingly  received  an 
invitation  to  assemble  upon  the  stage  on  the  evening 
after  the  theatre  closed.  A  few  of  the  literati  and 
members  of  the  press  were  also  requested  to  attend. 
The  theatre  was  decorated  with  garlands  and  banners, 
the  stage  thrown  open  to  its  full  extent,  and  "  set  out " 


THEATRICAL  ENTERTAINMENT         311 

as  a  ball  room.  At  the  upper  end  were  three  tables, 
One,  running  parallel  with  the  footlights,  was  furnished 
with  raised  seats  -—  these  were  designed  for  the  mana 
ger,  lessee,  "  stars,"  the  press,  and  invited  guests ;  two 
other  tables  ran  horizontally  at  either  end  of  the  centre 
banqueting  board.  The  members  of  the  company  sat  at 
one  of  these  tables ;  the  corps  de  ballet,  artisans,  &c., 
occupied  the  other.  No  one  who  had  been  regularly 
employed  in  the  theatre  was  omitted  in  the  general  in 
vitation;  not  even  the  somftolent  little  call  boy,  who 
might  have  preferred  the  rare  luxury  of  going  to  bed 
betimes.  Call  boys  are  always  sleepy. 

Although  the  position  of  the  subordinates  of  the  thea 
tre  must  on  that  night  have  been  a  novel  one,  to  their 
honor  be  it  spoken,  the  most  fastidious  observer  could 
not  have  picked  a  flaw  in  their  conduct.  Their  deco 
rum  was  unimpeachable.  No  loud  mirth  was  heard 
throughout  the  evening.  Subdued  enjoyment  reigned 
in  its  place,  with  as  strict  observance  of  nice  proprieties 
as  would  have  been  deemed  necessary  in  an  aristocratic 
ball  room. 

The  assembled  company  were  addressed  by  the  man 
ager,  who  expressed  to  them  his  indebtedness  for  their 
exertions,  and  his  regret  at  parting  with  some  of  their 
number.  Various  speeches  were  made  by  other  parties 
present,  and  a  number  of  favorite  ballads  sung  by  the 
musicians  of  the  theatre  and  one  or  two  guests.  Albert 
Smith  (of  Mont  Blanc  memory)  contributed  largely  to 
the  entertainment  by  his  comic  relations.  A  few  qua 
drilles  and  waltzes  had  been  gone  through  before  supper. 
There  was  but  one  cotillon  and  a  country  dance  after 
the  collation.  It  had  been  arranged  that  the  entertain 
ment  should  break  up  at  an  early  hour. 


312      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  ceremony  of  leavetaking  had  just  commenced, 
when  a  shriek,  wild  and  ear-piercing,  broke  upon  the  star 
tled  crowd.  A  flying  figure,  enveloped  in  flames,  was 
seen  rushing  up  the  stage.  One  of  the  young  ballet  girls 
had  carelessly  stood  too  near  the  footlights;  her  ball 
dress,  of  inflammable  materials,  had  taken  fire.  Scream 
ing  frantically,  she  darted  from  side  to  side,  fanning  by 
her  flight  the  devouring  element,  from  which,  in  mad 
bewilderment,  she  thought  to  escape.  She  looked  like  a 
cloud  of  fire  as  she  flew.  Her  white  arms,  tossed  wildly 
above  her  head,  were  all  of  human  form  that  was  visible 
through  the  flames.  Her  cries  were  echoed  from  many 
lips.  Those  who  could  fled  from  the  dangerous  con 
tact.  Vain  efforts  were  made  by  the  gentlemen  to  seize 
her.  But  for  the  bravery  of  Mrs.  Renshaw,  the  mistress 
of  the  wardrobe,  the  poor  girl's  life  must  in  a  few  mo 
ments  have  been  sacrificed.  This  courageous  woman 
caught  the  burning  girl  in  her  arms,  threw  her  to  the 
ground,  and  fell  upon  her,  smothering  the  flames,  while 
she  fearlessly  burned  her  own  face  and  hands.  Others 
followed  her  example,  and  the  fire  was  quickly  ex 
tinguished. 

I  cannot  attempt  adequately  to  describe  the  scene 
that  ensued  upon  the  very  spot  where  a  few  moments 
previous  all  had  been  serene  and  harmonious  gayety. 
Some  of  the  ladies  fainted  —  some  fell  into  violent  hys 
terics  —  some  ran  screaming  into  the  street.  The  gen 
tlemen  rushed  about  to  obtain  assistance  for  them. 
Above  the  mingled  sounds  of  horror  and  confusion  rose 
the  shrill  cries  of  the  half-burned  girl  and  the  lamen 
tations  of  her  mother,  who  had  been  quickly  apprised 
of  the  daughter's  peril. 

The  person  of  the  young  girl  was  dreadfully  burned. 


BALLET    GIRLS.  313 

her  arms  almost  to  the  bone.  Strange  to  say,  her  face 
remained  untouched.  For  a  time,  her  recovery  was 
very  doubtful.  I  saw  her  almost  daily  through  her  long 
illness,  and  her  patience  would  have  done  credit  to  a 
stronger  mind  and  higher  station  in  life.  The  public 
testified  their  sympathy  in  a  very  substantial  manner. 
Ample  subscriptions  were  raised  for  her ;  the  best  medi 
cal  attendance  supplied;  and  not  a  few  aristocratic 
carriages  stopped  at  her  humble  residence,  in  one  of 
the  narrowest,  closest  streets  in  London,  while  she 
received  charitable  visits  from  the  wealthy  and  fashion 
able  owners. 

I  know  nothing  of  the  history  of  Miss  R except 

what  qccured  during  her  illness.  Ballet  girls,  in  gen- 
ral,  are  a  despised,  persecuted,  and  often  misjudged  race. 
The  rank  they  hold  in  a  theatre  is  only  a  degree  raised 
above  that  of  the  male  supernumeraries.  They  are 
looked  down  upon  by  the  acting  members  of  the  company 
as  though  they  belonged  to  a  different  order  of  beings. 
In  some  London  theatres  they  have  a  separate  green 
room  from  that  devoted  to  the  actors  and  actresses. 
They  are  not  even  allowed  to  enter  the  latter  aparf- 
ment ;  and  yet,  during  my  eight  years'  experience  upon 
the  stage,  I  have  known  amongst  this  despised  class 
many  and  many  an  instance  of  girls  endowed  with  the 
highest  virtues,  leading  lives  of  unimpeachable  purity, 
industry,  devotion  to  their  kin,  and  fulfilling  the  hardest 
duties  of  life  with  a  species  of  stoical  heroism. 

The  woman  who,  on  the  stage,  is  in  danger  of  losing 
the  highest  attribute  of  her  womanhood,  —  her  priceless, 
native  dower  of  chastity,  —  would  be  in  peril  of  that  loss 
in  any  situation  of  life  where  she  was  in  some  degree  of 
freedom,  particularly  one  in  which  she  was  compelled 


314       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

by  circumstances  to  earn  her  own  livelihood.  I  make 
this  assertion  fearlessly,  for  I  believe  it  firmly.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  profession  necessarily  demoralizing  or 
degrading,  not  even  to  the  poor  ballet  girl. 

In  support  of  this  position,  I  give  a  brief  sketch  of  a 
young  girl,  belonging  to  a  ballet  company,  whose  conduct 
I  had  the  opportunity  of  watching  for  several  years.  I 
do  not  deem  it  necessary  to  mention  the  circumstances 
that  first  attracted  my  attention  and  caused  me  to  take 
interest  in  her  fate. 

She  had  been  educated  as  a  dancer  from  infancy. 
She  had  been  on  the  stage  all  her  life;  had  literally 
grown  up  behind  the  scenes  of  a  theatre.  Her  parents 
were  respectable,  though  it  is  difficult  to  define  their 
position  in  the  social  scale.  At  the  time  I  knew  her, 
her  mother  was  paralytic  and  bedridden.  The  father 
was  enfeebled  by  age,  and  could  only  earn  a  pittance  by 
copying  law  papers.  Georgina,  the  ballet  girl,  their 
only  child,  by  her  energetic  exertions,  supplied  the 
whole  wants  of  the  family.  And  what  were  those  exer 
tions  ?  The  mind  of  the  most  imaginative  reader  could 
hardly  picture  what  I  know  to  be  a  reality.  Georgina's 
parents  kept  no  servant;  she  discharged  the  entire 
duties  of  the  household  —  cooking,  washing,  sewing, 
every  thing.  From  daylight  to  midnight  not  a  moment 
of  her  time  was  unemployed.  She  must  be  at  rehearsal 
every  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  she  had  two  miles  and 
a  half  to  walk  to  the  theatre.  Before  that  hour  she 
had  the  morning  meal  of  her  parents  to  prepare,  her 
marketing  to  accomplish,  her  household  arrangements 
for  the  day  to  make ;  if  early  in  the  week,  her  washing ; 
if  in  the  middle  of  the  week,  her  ironing ;  if  at  the  close, 
her  sewing ;  for  she  made  all  her  own  and  her  mother's 


GEORGDTA,  THE   BALLET    GIBL.  315 

dresses.     At  what  hour  in  the  morning  must  she  have 
risen  ? 

Her  ten-o'clock  rehearsal  lasted  from  two  to  four 
hours  —  more  frequently  the  latter.  But  watch  her  in 
the  theatre,  and  you  never  found  her  hands  idle.  "When 
she  was  not  on  the  stage,  you  were  sure  of  discovering 
her  in  some  quiet  corner  —  knitting  lace,  cutting  grate 
aprons  out  of  tissue  paper,  making  artificial  flowers,  or 
embroidering  articles  of  fancy  work,  by  the  sale  of 
which  she  added  to  her  narrow  means.  From  rehearsal 
she  hastened  home  to  prepare  the  midday  meal  of  her 
parents  and  attend  to  her  mother's  wants.  After  din 
ner  she  received  a  class  of  children,  to  whom  she  taught 
dancing  for  a  trifling  sum.  If  she  had  half  an  hour  to 
spare,  she  assisted  her  father  in  copying  law  papers. 
Then  tea  must  be  prepared,  and  her  mother  arranged 
comfortably  for  the  night.  Her  long  walk  to  the  thea 
tre  must  be  accomplished  at  least  half  an  hour  before 
the  curtain  rose  —  barely  time  to  make  her  toilet.  If 
she  was  belated  by  her  home  avocations,  she  was  com 
pelled  to  run  the  whole  distance.  I  have  known  this  to 
occur.  Not  to  be  ready  for  the  stage  would  have  sub 
jected  her  to  a  forfeit.  Between  the  acts,  or  when  she 
was  not  on  the  stage,  there  she  sat  again,  in  her  snug 
corner  of  the  greenroom,  dressed  as  a  fairy,  or  a  maid 
of  honor,  or  a  peasant,  or  a  page,  with  a  bit  of  work  in 
her  hands,  only  laying  down  the  needle,  which  her 
fingers  actually  made  fly,  when  she  was  summoned  by 
the- call  boy,  or  required  to  change  her  costume  by  the 
necessities  of  the  play.  Sometimes  she  was  at  liberty 
at  ten  o'clock,  but  oftener  not  until  half  past  eleven,  and 
then  there  was  the  long  walk  home  before  her.  Her 
mother  generally  awoke  at  the  hour  when  Georgina  was 


316      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

expected,  and  a  fresh  round  of  filial  duties  were  to  be 
performed.  Had  not  the  wearied  limbs  which  that 
poor  ballet  girl  laid  upon  her  couch  earned  their  sweet 
repose  ?  Are  there  many  whose  refreshment  is  so  de 
served  —  whose  rising  up  and  lying  down  are  rounded 
by  a  circle  so  holy  ? 

No  one  ever  heard  her  murmur.  Her  fragile  form 
spoke  of  strength  overtasked;  it  was  more  careworn 
than  her  face.  That  had  always  a  look  of  busy  serenity 
off  the  stage,  a  softly-animated  expression  when  occu 
pied  before  the  audience  in  the  duties  of  her  profession. 
She  had  a  ready  smile  when  addressed  —  a  meek  reply 
when  rudely  chided  by  the  churlish  ballet  master  or 
despotic  stage  manager.  Many  a  time  I  have  seen  the 
tears  dropping  upon  her  work  ;  but  if  they  were  noticed 
she  would  brush  them  away,  and  say  she  was  a  fool  and 
cried  for  nothing.  Her  devotion  to  her  parents  was  the 
strongest  impulse  of  her  nature.  In  her  early  youth  she 
had  been  engaged  to  a  young  man,  a  musician,  belonging 
to  the  orchestra.  They  had  been  betrothed  for  several 
years.  Some  fairer  face,  though  he  could  scarcely  have 
found  a  sweeter,  had  rendered  him  faithless.  She  bore 
her  deep  sorrow  with  that  lovely  submission  which  ele 
vates  and  purifies  the  spirit,  but  gave  her  heart  away 
no  more.  The  breath  of  slander  had  never  shadowed 
her  name.  Younger  and  gayer  girls  in  the  theatre  used 
to  designate  her  as  the  "old  maid,"  but  this  was  the 
hardest  word  that  any  one  ever  applied  to  Georgina. 
Was  not  such  a  heart  as  hers  what  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning  has  described  as 

"A  fair,  still  house,  well  kept, 
Which  humble  thoughts  had  swept, 
And  holy  prayers  made  clean  "  ? 


GEORGINA,  THE   BALLET    GIRL.  317 

Her  answer  to  a  sympathizing  "  How  weary  you  must 
be  at  night ! "  was,  "  Yes  ;  but  I  am  so  thankful  that  I 
have  health  to  get  through  so  much.  What  would  be 
come  of  my  poor  mother  or  of  my  father,  if  I  fell  ill  ?" 

How  many  are  there  who  can  render  up  such  an  ac 
count  of  their  stewardship  as  this  poor  girl  may  give  in 
the  hereafter?  How  many  can  say  with  her  that  life 
has  been 

"  One  perpetual  growth 
Of  heavenward  enterprise  "  ? 

And  this  flower  blossomed  within  the  walls  of  a 
theatre  —  was  the  indigenous  growth  of  that  theatre  — 
a  wallflower,  if  you  like  —  but  still  sending  up  the  rich 
fragrance  of  gratitude  to  Him  by  whose  hand  it  was 
fashioned.  To  the  eyes  of  the  Pharisee,  who  denounces 
all  dramatic  representations,  while  with  self-applauding 
righteousness  he  boldly  approaches  the  throne  of  mercy, 
this  "  ballet  girl,"  like  the  poor  publican,  stood  "  afar 
off."  To  the  eyes  of  the  great  Judge,  which  stood 
the  nearer? 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

Illness  of  Mr.  Mowatt.  —  Voyage  to  Trinidad.  —  New  Olympic  The 
atre. —  Powerful  Company.  —  Abolishing  the  "  Star  System."  — 
Opening  Night  of  the  Olympic  Theatre. — A  Black-garbed  Audience. 
—  Refusal  to  appear  in  Mourning.  —  A  White  Compromise.  — 
Inaugural  Address  written  by  Albert  Smith. —  Two  Gentleman  of 
Verona.  —  Queen  Adelaide's  Wardrobe.  —  Much  Ado  about  Noth 
ing.  —  Twelfth  Night.  —  Othello.  —  The  Noble  Heart.  —  First 
Production  of  Fashion  in  London.  —  Critics.  —  Punch's  Rebuke  to 
the  Morning  Post.  —  The  Farce  of  Floral  Showers.  —  Critique 
from  the  Sun.  —  Literary  Gazette.  —  The  Sentiments  of  Adam 
Trueman  hissed.  —  The  American  and  English  Personators  of 
Prudence  — Mental  Discipline  of  Actors — Illustrative  Sketches.  — 
Mrs.  Parker.  —  Mrs.  Knight.  —  Three  Histories. 

DURING  this  autumn  Mr.  Mowatt  again  fell  serious 
ly  ill.  One  eye  became  totally  blind  —  its  vision  was 
nevermore  restored.  He  was  threatened  at  times 
with  entire  loss  of  sight.  Medical  aid  proved  unavail 
ing.  A  voyage  to  the  "West  Indies  was  recommended 
as  the  sole  remaining  panacea.  Always  hopeful,  he 
seized  upon  an  idea  so  full  of  promise,  and  persuaded 
himself  that  a  speedy  and  thorough  cure  would  be 
effected  through  change  of  climate.  My  desire  to  ac 
company  him  was  overruled.  Nor  was  the  execution 
of  this  wish  feasible.  The  prostrating  species  of  mal 
de  mer  to  which  I  was  subject,  during  the  entire  period 
of  every  sea  voyage,  would  have  rendered  me  a  bur 
den,  and  not  a  helpful  companion.  But  even  more  im 
perative  reasons  compelled  me  to  remain  in  London. 
It  was  only  through  the  fulfilment  of  my  engagements 

(318) 


VOYAGE    TO    TRINIDAD.  319 

that  the  necessary  outlay,  added  to  other  heavy  respon 
sibilities,  could  be  met.  I  was  enjoying  vigorous  health 
—  I  was  surrounded  by  warm  and  tried  friends  —  I 

was  not  left  alone.  But  he Enough  that  he 

thought  he  had  chosen  the  lesser  evil;  it  was  not  in 
his  nature  to  murmur  at  the  inevitable. 

He  set  sail  for  Trinidad  in  October,  purposing  to 
return  in  December,  before  the  opening  of  the  new 
Olympic.  But  Christmas  came,  and  with  it  only  a 
letter  in  the  invalid's  wished-for  place.  The  sunny 
climate  had  benefited  him,  yet  he  was  too  feeble  to  un 
dertake  the  homeward  voyage.  Every  steamer  brought 
cheerful  and  encouraging  letters  —  but  the  day  of  his 
return  was  postponed  from  week  to  week.  He  had 
been  apprised  in  Trinidad,  that  to  leave  a  tropical  lati 
tude  for  the  cold  and  uncertain  climate  of  England, 
during  the  winter  season,  was  to  rush  into  certain  dan 
ger.  I  was  forced  to  lay  aside  my  expectations  as 
quietly  as  I  best  might,  and  to  give  up  looking  for  him 
until  spring. 

The  new  Olympic  Theatre  was  to  open  on  the  26th 
of  December.  In  English  theatres  there  are  no  per 
formances  during  Christmas  week,  nor,  as  with  us,  on 
Christmas  eve  or  Christmas  night. 

No  theatre  in  London  could  boast  of  a  more  power 
ful  and  extensive  company  than  the  Olympic.  All  the 
talent  within  reach  had  been  monopolized  by  the  man 
ager  at  a  rate  of  remuneration  which  the  most  prosper 
ous  theatre  could  ill  support.  Among  this  host  of  con 
stellations  were  found  the  names  of  Davenport,  Brooke, 
Conway,  Wigan,  Belton,  Compton,  —  all  actors,  who, 
since  that  day,  have  shone  separately  as  stars,  —  be 
sides  a  bright  cluster  of  lesser  luminaries.  The  femi- 


320      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

nine  portion  of  the  company  consisted  of  Miss  Fanny 
Vining,  Mrs.  Seymour,  the  Misses  Marshall,  Mrs. 
Marston,  Mrs.  Parker,  Mrs.  Wigan,  Mrs.  Horn,  Miss 
Oliver,  Miss  Ellis,  &c.  —  ladies  of  unquestionable  tal- 
enl  in  their  several  departments  —  a  gifted  and  har 
monious  band.  The  stage  management  was  under  the 
direction  of  Mr.  George  Ellis,  stage  manager  of  her 
majesty's  private  theatre  at  Windsor  Palace  —  one  of 
the  most  accomplished  directors  of  which  the  profes 
sion  can  boast. 

I  proposed  that  the  "  star  system "  should  be  abol 
ished,  that  no  names  should  appear  at  the  head  of 
the  playbills  as  claiming  the  highest  rank,  but  that  all 
should  stand  upon  their  individual  merits  —  leaving  the 
public  to  award  to  every  one  his  just  position.  The 
proposition  was  acceded  to  with  one  voice.  The  same 
plan  had  been  adopted  in  other  London  theatres, 
v/  Every  actor  is,  of  course,  engaged  for  a  separate 
"  line  of  business."  The  "  first  old  man "  does  not 
trench  on  the  rights  of  the  "  low  comedian,"  nor  the 
"  light  comedian  "  interfere  with  the  "  heavy  man,"  (or 
villain  of  the  theatre,)  nor  the  "leading  juvenile" 
jostle  against  the  "  walking  gentleman,"  nor  the  "  first 
old  woman  "  come  in  the  way  of  the  "  second  old  wo 
man,"  nor  the  "  leading  lady  "  of  the  "  walking  lady," 
nor  the  "  heavy  lady  "  of  the  "  singing  chambermaid  " 
and  "  page,"  &c.  The  members  of  a  company,  in  a 
well-organized  theatre,  resemble  the  men  on  a  chess 
board.  Each  has  his  appointed  place,  and  fights  his 
battle  for  distinction  in  a  fixed  direction.  I  write  this 
much  for  the  uninitiated. 

The  Olympic  Theatre  was  to  open  with  Shakspeare's 
play  of  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  to  be  followed 


MOURNING.  321 

by  the  usual  fantastic  Christmas  pantomime.  I  was 
selected  to  deliver  the  inaugural  address,  written  by 
Albert  Smith,  Esq.  That  was  to  end  my  duties  for 
the  night.  Miss  Vining  and  Mr.  Davenport  sustained 
the  principal  characters  of  the  play. 

The  recent  death  of  Queen  Adelaide  rendered  it 
incumbent  that  all  the  company  should  appear  upon 
the  stage,  during  the  singing  of  the  national  anthem, 
attired  in  mourning,  or  wearing  mourning  badges.  I 
refused  to  comply  with  this  request.  While  I  respect 
the  convictions  of  others,  my  own  objections  to  the 
use  of  mourning,  or  rather,  to  wearing  black  as 
mourning,  deserve,  I  hope,  some  better  name  than  pre 
judice.  At  least,  they  are  founded  upon  the  religious 
belief  which  I  profess,  and  are  shared  by  the  leading 
members  of  that  faith  in  this  country,  though  not  in 
England.  The  force  of  English  conventionality  was 
too  stong  for  me  to  obtain  consent  from  the  manage 
ment  to  the  violation  of  an  established  form.  "While 
the  subject  was  under  discussion,  and  both  parties 
evinced  a  determination  not  to  yield,  a  third  person 
chanced  to  inquire  whether  I  objected  to  wear  white. 
I,  of  course,  replied  in  the  negative.  "  Then  wear  a 
dress  of  white  crape,  with  trimmings  of  white  crape,  and 
without  ornaments  —  that  is  considered  mourning  as 
much  as  the  black  to  which  you  are  opposed,"  was 
the  satisfactory  rejoinder.  I  gladly  acceded  to  this 
proposition. 

When  the  curtain  rose  upon  the  assembled  company, 
prepared  to  sing  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  I  cannot  con 
ceive  a  more  gloomily  incongruous  sight  than  was 
presented.  In  that  gayly-decorated  theatre,  blazing 
with  light,  sat  tier  after  tier  of  men,  women,  and  chil- 
21 


322    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

dren,  all  habited  in  black.  The  merry  faces  and  fu 
nereal  garbs  were  strikingly  inharmonious.  On  the 
stage  stood  the  performers,  arrayed  in  the  same  sable 
hue  —  those  who  were  costumed  for  the  play  wore 
black  badges,  strangely  at  variance  with  their  fantastic 
stage  attire.  My  dress  of  white  crape  offered  no  dis 
respect  to  the  memory  of  Queen  Adelaide,  and  relieved, 
by  contrast,  the  sombre  aspect  of  the  group  in  whose 
centre  I  stood. 

At  the  close  of  the  anthem,  the  inaugural  address  was 
delivered.  I  exerted  myself  to  give  it  a  thoroughly 
humorous  interpretation.  As  may  be  inferred  from  the 
name  of  the  author,  the  address  was  not  of  a  solemn 
character.  The  black-garbed  audience  indulged  in  the 
most  vociferous  merriment  at  Mr.  Albert  Smith's  jokes. 
They  were  infinitely  amused  at  his  discovery  that  there 
was  something  extremely  ludicrous  in  the  burning  of 
the  old  Olympic  upon  the  site  where  the  present  edifice 
stood  —  the  "  real  water  flooding  the  Olympic  stage  "  — 
the  "  unexpected  overflow  "  in  the  theatre  from  the  en 
gine  hose —  the  lessee's  hopes  "ending  in  smoke"  — 
and  the 

"  French  ships'  masts  by  English  fire  destroyed  "*  — 

a  spectacle  which  at  one  period,  he  asserted,  would  have 
been  particularly  enjoyed. 

The  performance  of  the  play  afforded  a  quiet  and 
rational  gratification.  But  the  uproarious  mirth,  of 
course,  broke  out  anew  at  the  whimsicalities  of  Mat 
thews  during  the  pantomime.  The  laughter  produced 
by  his  singing  of  "hot  codlins"  showered  with  tears 
the  cheeks  of  age  and  childhood.  True,  they  were 

*  The  old  Olympic  Theatre  was  built  of  the  masts  of  French  ships. 


QUEEN  ADELAIDE'S  WARDROBE.  323 

wiped  away  with  handkerchiefs  that  had  a  funereal 
edge  of  black ;  but  the  merry  mourners  wore  "  the  trap 
pings  and  the  outward  garb  of  woe  "  with  a  jovial  res 
ignation  quite  consolatory  to  witness. 

Shortly  after  this,  the  wardrobe  of  Queen  Adelaide 
was  sold.  I  purchased  several  of  the  richest  of  her 
regal  robes.  The  garments  of  the  actual  queen  have 
since  decked  the  mimic  representative  of  royalty  upon 
the  English  as  well  as  American  boards. 

My  first  appearance,  except  for  the  delivery  of  the 
address,  was  in  Beatrice,  a  few  nights  after  the  open 
ing.  Mr.  Davenport  enacted  Benedick. 

Shakspeare's  Twelfth  Night  was  the  next  produc 
tion.  The  characters  in  this  play  are  very  numerous, 
and  the  strength  of  the  company  was  brilliantly  ex 
hibited. 

Mr.  Brooke's  first  appearance  was  in  Othello  ;  Mr. 
Davenport  represented  lago,  Miss  Vining  Emilia,  and 
I  Desdemona. 

The  first  new  play  produced  was  the  Noble  Heart,  by 
Mr.  Lewees,  in  which  Mr.  Davenport,  Mr.  Brooke,  and 
I  sustained  the  leading  characters. 

Fashion  was  the  second  novelty  offered  the  public. 
I  declined  appearing.  Miss  Vining  enacted  Gertrude, 
and  rendered  the  part  more  effectively  than  its  author 
had  ever  done.  Mr.  Davenport  personated  the  old 
farmer,  Adam  Trueman.  The  happy  blending  of  deep 
pathos  and  hearty  humor  in  his  imbodiment  made  the 
performance  a  memorable  one.  The  mise  en  scene  of 
the  comedy  was  truly  magnificent. 

The  play,  in  spite  of  the  admirable  manner  in  which  „ 
it  was  acted,  did  not  meet  with  the  same  unequivocal 
species  of  success  which  attended  the  representation  of 


324      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Armand  before  an  English  audience.  Yet  of  twenty- 
seven  -  criticisms  by  the  London  press,  twenty  were 
favorable  —  perhaps  because 

"  The  quality  of  mercy  was  strained." 

The  lashings  of  those  critics  who  disdained  that "  quality 
of  mercy  "  atoned  for  the  leniency  of  the  others.  I  have 
already  alluded  to  the  severity  of  the  Examiner,  who  pro 
nounced  that  Mrs.  Trollope  would,  for  such  a  pro 
duction,  have  received,  at  the  hands  of  America,  a 
compensation  very  different  from  the  one  bestowed  upon 
their  countrywoman.  But  the  critic  gallantly  prefaced 
his  own  condemnation  by  the  more  complimentary 
opinion  of  the  Daily  Times. 

The  savageness  of  the  Morning  Post  was  thus  rebuked 
by  Punch :  — 

"  Mr.  Jenkins  last  week  favored  the  limited  world  in  which  he 
moves  with  a  notice  of  the  first  representation  of  Mrs.  Mowatt's 
comedy  —  Fashion,  or  Life  in  New  York ;  a  play  which,  according 
to  the  Times,  '  has  been  acted  with  success  at  every  chief  city  in 
the  Union,'  and  was  received  at  our  Olympic  here  with  '  tumultuous 
applause.  It  may/  says  Jenkins,  '  by  some  weak  persons,  be 
thought  ungenerous  in  us,  when  speaking  of  the  production  of  a 
lady,  and  a  stranger,  if  we  employ  any  language  that  is  not  highly 
complimentary  ;  but  genius  is  of  no  sex.'  And  then  Jenkins  pro 
ceeds  to  abuse  the  lady  and  stranger's  play,  elaborately,  in  every 
particular,  with  all  his  mighty  soul  and  gigantic  strength.  For 
the  dead  set  that  he  thus  makes,  he  must,  of  course,  have  a  motive, 
which,  had  he  limited  himself  to  strictures  on  the  production  itself, 
might  possibly  have  been  supposed  to  be  a  no  meaner  one  than  an 
excess  of  critical  zeal.  But  Mr.  Jenkins,  not  content  with  yelping 
at  the  play,  must  needs  have  a  snap  at  the  authoress.  '  When  the 
actors,'  writes  gently-sneering  Jenkins,  'had  indulged  us  with 
another  glance  at  their  persons,  a  very  general  call  from  all  parts 
of  the  house  brought  Mrs.  Mowatt  on  the  stage.  The  noise  was 
then  tremendous,  and  the  shower  of  customary  bouquets  more 
weighty  and  continuous  than  we  ever  remember  it  to  have  been. 


THE   FARCE    OF   FLORAL    SHOWERS.  325 

The  affair  was  a  little  overdone  ;  for  not  only  vrere  the  flowers  provided 
too  profusely,  but  the  lady,  in  our  eyes,  appeared  to  be  ready  dressed 
for  the  occasion.'  Why  could  you  not  have  moderated  the  rancor 
of  your  pen  a  little,  Jenkins  ?  Why  attack  the  lady  and  stranger 
personally  ?  Is  it  your  individual  self,  or  your  order,  —  Jenkins  or 
flunkydom,  —  that  Mrs.  Mowatt  has  offended  ?  Jenkins,  you 
say  '  that  genius  is  of  no  sex.'  Neither  is  criticism,  as  personified 
by  you.  At  any  rate,  it  is  not  manly." 

There  was  some  truth  in  the  "  ready  dressed  for  the 
occasion."  I  was  nervously  uncertain  of  the  success  of 
Fashion,  and  went  to  the  theatre  in  a  morning  wrap 
per,  that,  if  the  play  failed,  I  might  not  seem  to  have 
anticipated  a  triumph.  I  passed  the  evening  in  a  pri 
vate  box  opening  behind  the  scenes,  and  only  made  my 
toilet  during  the  fifth  act,  when  the  success  of  the 
play  was  insured.  As  for  the  floral  showers,  those  are 
always  more  or  less  a  conventional  farce.  The  friends 
of  the  performer  usually  arm  themselves  with  bouquets, 
and  the  management  as  frequently  prepare  a  second 
supply.  I  am  not  aware  that  the  latter  was  the  case  at 
the  production  of  Fashion  ;  but  it  might  have  been.  At 
all  events,  the  number  of  personal  friends  who  were 
present  might  well  account  for  the  parterre-like  aspect 
of  the  stage  during  my  reception.  It  is  a  mistake  to 
suppose  that  the  bouquet  rain  is  ever  a  sign  of  the  esti 
mation  in  which  an  actor  is  held  by  the  public  in  gen 
eral,  though  it  is  often  the  evidence  of  private  esteem. 
Sometimes  the  same  bouquet  is  made  to  do  service  more 
than  once  during  an  evening. 

The  critics  who  condemned  Fashion  seemed  to 
hold  my  country  responsible  for  its  shortcomings. 
Those  who  awarded  the  meed  of  praise  in  turn  bestowed 
their  eulogiums  upon  America,  as  due  to  her  through 
one  of  her  children. 


#26      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  Sun  prefaces  its  lengthy  and  laudatory  criticism 
with  the  following :  — 

"  America  is  worthily  repaying  the  dramatic  debt  she  owes  us. 
The  seeds  of  the  dramatic  art,  which  have  been  scattered  by  all  our 
best  dramatic  artistes  broadcast  on  the  American  soil,  have  fructi 
fied,  and  are  now  bearing  fruit.  America  has,  within  the  last  three 
'years,  given  us  Miss  Cushman,  the  greatest  tragedian  at  present  on 
the  stage ;  Mrs.  Mowatt,  the  most  interesting  of  young  tragedians, 
the  most  ladylike  of  genteel  comedians,  the  only  lady  who  has 
shown  herself  capable  of  taking  Miss  Foote's  line  of  characters  since 
Miss  Foote  left  the  stage ;  Mr.  Davenport,  one  of  the  most  ener 
getic  and  powerful  actors  of  melodrama  that  has  appeared  of  late 
years,  and  whose  powers  as  a  legitimate  tragedian  and  as  a  genteel 
comedian  are  of  no  common  order  ;  besides  a  host  of  excellent 
delineators  of  Yankee  peculiarities.  But  America  has  not  given  us, 
until  last  night,  any  play  that  would  stand  the  test  of  representation 
before  a  London  audience.  Rough  and  ranting  melodramas  have 
formed  the  staple  of  what  America  had  hitherto  sent  us  ;  but  last 
night  this  reproach  was  wiped  out,  and  there  was  represented  at  the 
Olympic  Theatre,  with  the  most  deserved  success,  an  original  Ameri 
can  five-act  comedy,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  New  York,  and 
which  delineates  American  manners  after  the  same  fashion  as  our 
own  Garrick,  Colman,  and  Sheridan  were  accustomed  to  delineate 
English  manners,  and  which,  as  regards  plot,  construction,  charac 
ter,  or  dialogue,  is  worthy  to  take  its  place  by  the  side  of  the  best  of 
English  comedies." 

It  will  be  observed  that  this  critic  ignores  the  repre 
sentation  of  Armand,  which  was  produced  at  the  Mary- 
lebone  a  year  before,  and  also  of  Velasco,  produced  at 
the  same  theatre.  The  Literary  Gazette  is  less  oblivi 
ous,  though  not  so  unqualifiedly  eulogistic.  Its  review 
of  the  play  has  the  following  opening :  — 

"  In  the  barrenness  of  home  authorship,  in  the  spirit  of  humilia 
tion  which  attaches  to  our  dependence  upon  the  French  for  a  mon 
grel  dramatic  literature,  the  public  will  greet  with  satisfaction  the 
quasi-English  production  of  an  American  author ;  and  to  this  author 
even  a  qualified  approval,  tendered  in  spite  of  English  self-love, 
must  be  gratifying.  It  became  a  fair  and  accomplished  lady  to 


FASHION    IN   LONDON.  327 

venture  on  the  hazardous  undertaking  which  Mrs.  Mo  watt  achieved, 
for  the  second  titne,  on  Wednesday  last,  in  the  new  arena  of  her 
exploits.  The  play  is  styled  a  comedy,  and  is  entitled  Fashion ; 
but  we  would  rather  consider  it  what  our  neighbors  call  un  tableau 
de  moeurs. 

Fashion  ran  two  weeks,  a  much  shorter  period  than 
Armand.  On  some  evenings  the  republican  sentiments 
met  with  ebullitions  of  displeasure  from  the  audience 
One  night  there  was  a  very  decided  hiss  at  some  of 
Adam  Trueman's  animadversions.  With  admirable 
presence  of  mind  Mr.  Davenport  paused,  coolly  folded 
his  arms,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  that  portion  of  the  theatre 
from  which  the  hiss  proceeded,  and  waited  for  the 
decision  of  the  audience,  demanding  by  his  manner 
whether  the  majority  were  prepared  to  sanction  such 
an  interruption.  His  perfect  self-possession  probably 
saved  the  play.  A  torrent  of  applause  silenced  the 
hisses  of  disapprobation,  and  commanded  the  perform 
ance  to  proceed. 

Fashion  was  first  published  February,  1850. 

I  can  never  recall  the  London  and  New  York  repre 
sentations  of  this  comedy  without  remembering  the  sad 
histories  of  the  English  and  American  personators  of 
Prudence,  the  Yankee  spinster,  perhaps  the  most  comic 
character  in  the  play  ;  though  I  never  intended  it  to  be 
so,  and  never  understood  how  it  became  so.  I  give  a 
brief  sketch  of  these  sorely-tried  "  servants  of  the  stage," 
in  illustration  of  the  mental  discipline  practised  by 
actors,  and  of  their  absolute  self-renunciation,  in  laying 
aside  the  most  heartrending  sorrows  during  the  fulfil 
ment  of  their  duty. 

Mrs.  Parker,  a  most  estimable  woman  and  excellent 
actress,  was  the  representative  of  Prudence  in  London. 
While  the  play  was  in  rehearsal  she  suddenly  received 


328      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

a  telegraphic  despatch  from  Brighton,  announcing  that 
her  husband  was  at  the  point  of  death.  He  had  for 
several  years  been  a  victim  to  consumption.  She 
hastened  to  him,  and  arrived  in  time  to  receive  his 
dying  thanks  and  parting  words  of  tenderness.  They 
had  been  united  twenty-five  years.  The  bond  of 
mutual  love  between  them  seems  to  have  been  of  the 
most  holy  kind,  proved  by  love's  highest  tests  —  constan 
cy  and  unselfishness.  For  years  the  devoted  wife  had 
supported  her  invalid  husband  and  their  children  by 
her  exertions  on  the  stage. 

When  the  last  offices  were  performed,  she  returned 
to  London.  Fashion  was  to  be  produced  in  a  couple 
of  days  more.  If  the  part  assigned  to  her  were  given  to 
another  while  she  indulged  her  natural  grief,  she  could 
not  demand  the  salary  so  necessary  for  the  support  of 
her  children.  Her  only  means  of  livelihood  would  be 
cut  off  for  the  length  of  time  that  the  play  ran.  She 
begged  to  be  excused  from  rehearsal  as  far  as  possible, 
but  informed  the  management  that  she  would  perform 
her  duty  on  the  evening  that  the  comedy  was  produced. 

"Who  amongst  the  audience,  that  witnessed  her  comic 
delineation  of  the  self-satisfied  spinster,  suspected  that 
an  agonized  heart  was  masking  its  expression  in  the 
fictitious  smiles  that  awakened  their  mirth  ?  I  shall 
never  forget  the  look  of  intense  but  suppressed  grief  on 
her  careworn  countenance,  when,  as  I  was  passing  be 
hind  the  scenes  one  evening,  I  stopped  to  speak  to  her 
and  to  thank  her  for  her  efforts.  She  was  leaning  against 
one  of  the  wings,  waiting  for  her  cue  to  appear  upon  the 
stage.  Her  little  daughter,  of  six  years  old,  was  holding 
her  hand,  and  gazing  up  in  the  mother's  face  with  a  look 
of  childish  but  troubled  wonder.  She  was  too  young  to 
feel  her  loss. 


TOUCHING   HISTORIES.  329 

I  expressed  to  Mrs.  Parker  my  regrets  that  she 
should  be  forced  to  exert  herself  while  in  so  unfit  a  state. 
Trying  to  conceal  her  emotion,  but  with  lips  that  quiv 
ered  uncontrollably,  she  answered,  "  Perhaps  it  is  best 
for  me ;  I  should  soon  be  quite  useless  if  I  dared  give 

way;    and  the  children  "      She  could  not  finish 

her  sentence,  but  turned  her  face  from  me,  as  she  drew 
the  little  one  at  her  side  more  closely  to  her.  A  moment 
afterwards  she  was  on  the  stage,  and  I  could  hear  the 
peals  of  laughter  that  followed  her  entrance. 

Was  not  duly  the  strongest  instinct  of  this  high 
hearted  woman's  nature  ?  Was  not  her  victory  over 
self  a  triumph  that  thousands  who  have  sunk  into  a 
state  of  inactive  dejection,  under  the  pressure  of  a  simi 
lar  sorrow,  might  bow  before  and  acknowledge  as  holy? 

Mrs.  Knight  was  the  original  personator  of  Pru-  s 
dence  in  New  York.  Her  name  is  endeared  to  the 
American  public  by  a  host  of  pleasant  associations. 
Her  talents  were  long  the  delight  of  audiences  who  used 
to  crowd  the  Park  Theatre  in  the  good  old  times.  When 
I  became  acquainted  with  her  she  was  a  widow,  resid 
ing  with  her  brother,  for  whom  she  had  a  sort  of  twin- 
like  attachment.  Her  hopes  were  all  centred  upon  an 
only  daughter,  a  lovely  being  of  seventeen.  When 
Mrs.  Knight  was  first  presented  to  me  this  sweet  girl 
stood  by  her  side,  eagerly  listening  to  our  conversation. 
I  can  vividly  recall  the  delicate  bloom  of  her  cheek, 
the  lustrous  eyes,  the  finely-rounded  form,  that  seemed 
glowing  with  health  and  the  enjoyment 

"  Of  life's  pure  pleasures  manifold." 

We  never  met  again  until  Fashion  was  reproduced 
after  my  own  debut,  and  I  enacted  the  character  of 


330       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

Gertrude.  Mrs.  Knight  personated  Prudence,  as  be 
fore.  Grief  had  made  such  ravages  in  her  face  that  I 
scarcely  recognized  her  when  we  encountered  each 
other  behind  the  scenes.  Her  daughter's  summons  had 
come,  shortly  after  I  first  saw  her,  in  the  form  of  con 
sumption.  She  lingered  a  few  months,  filling  her  mother's 
breaking  heart  with  alternate  hopes  and  fears,  and  then 
departed.  The  bereaved  mother  had  been  completely 
crushed  by  the  blow ;  yet  there  she  stood,  fantastically 
attired  for  a  comedy,  though  life  had  become  to  her  the 
saddest  of  tragedies.  I  watched  her  when  she  appeared 
on  the  stage,  and  could  not  perceive  that  her  perform 
ance  had  lost  any  of  the  humor  by  which  it  had  been 
formerly  characterized ;  but  in  reality,  every  look,  every 
word,  every  action  was  a  mere  mechanical  effort — the 
body  went  through  a  set  routine  while  the  spirit  was 
far  away.  When  she  left  the  stage,  I  twice  saw  her 
throw  herself  into  a  chair  and  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears.  At  the  stage  summons,  the  scalding  drops  were 
hastily  wiped  away;  but  they  seemed  to  reflow  spon 
taneously  the  instant  she  was  no  longer  within  sight  of 
the  audience. 

Some  years  afterwards  I  visited  her  in  London. 
Her  sorrow  still  rankled.  Time,  the  great  consoler, 
had  poured  no  balm  into  the  wound.  Profuse  weeping 
had  brought  on  a  disease  of  the  eyes,  and  she  had  left 
the  stage.  She  was  still  residing  with  her  brother,  to 
whom  she  clung  as  to  her  only  earthly  hope.  Such  a 
history  speaks  for  itself ;  it  needs  no  comment. 

To  these  narrations  I  am  tempted  to  add  one  more, 
in  exemplification  of  the  same  class  of  virtues.  I  was 
not  an  eye  witness  to  the  facts ;  they  were  related  to  me 
by  a  friend. 


STAGE   TRIALS.  331 

Mr.  Macready  was  representing  Macbeth  at  Drury 
Lane.  An  actress  of  great  public  and  private  excel 
lence  personated  Lady  Macbeth.  She  was  in  the  act 
of  going  upon  the  stage,  when  a  letter  was  placed  in  her 
hands  by  the  messenger  of  the  theatre.  She  glanced  at 
the  handwriting  and  turned  deadly  pale  —  but  her  cue 
had  been  spoken  by  Macbeth.  She  thrust  the  letter  in 
her  bosom,  and  walked  firmly  upon  the  stage.  When 
the  curtain  fell  upon  the  close  of  the  third  act,  my  friend 
saw  her  with  trembling  hands  hastily  tear  open  the 
missive.  She  uttered  one  exclamation  of  intense  agony, 
and  with  a  face  rigid  as  marble,  but  tearless  eyes,  re 
folded  the  epistle.  My  friend  asked  her  what  had 
happened ;  but  she  could  not  command  herself  to  answer. 
Stifling  down  her  emotion,  she  hurried  to  her  dressing 
room.  The  curtain  rose  for  the  fourth  act.  At  the  call 
boy's  summons  she  reappeared,  and  with  forced  com 
posure  concluded  the  part  of  Lady  Macbeth.  It  was 
not  until  the  curtain  fell,  and  her  professional  duty  was 
at  an  end  for  the  night,  that  her  grief  broke  forth  in 
tears  and  in  words.  The  letter  apprised  her  of  the 
death  of  her  husband,  whom  she  had  watched  over  with 
the  truest  womanly  devotion  through  the  most  terrible 
of  trials.  He  was  a  lunatic. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Ariadne.  —  English  Version,  by  John  Oxenford.  —  Closing  Catas 
trophe.  —  The  three  Ariadnes.  —  Leaping  the  Rock.  —  Marie  de 
Meranie.  —  The  Misanthrope.  —  Uxmal.  —  Lovers'  Amazements. 

—  Jealousy  of  Actors.  —  Afflicting  Tidings.  —  Loss  of  Memory. 

—  Disastrous   Close  of  the  Olympic  Theatre.  —  Charge  brought 
against  the  Manager.  —  Attack  of  Brain  Fever.  —  First  Con 
sciousness.  —  Dr.    W—tt's     Communications.  —  The    Manager's 
Trial.  —  Conviction.  —  Insanity.  —  Self-Destruction.  —  Mr.  Mow- 
att's  Return  to  England.  —  Shorn  Tresses.  —  Journey  to  Malvern. 

THE  classic  tragedy  of  Ariadne  was  produced  during 
this  season  at  the  Olympic.  The  Ariane  of  Thomas 
Corneille,  the  younger  brother  (by  twenty  years)  of 
the  great  Pierre  Corneille,  father  of  the  French  drama, 
was  rendered  into  English  blank  verse  by  John  Oxen- 
ford,  Esq.  The  French  Ariane  is  one  of  Rachel's  most 
magnificent  personations.  The  female  interest  predomi 
nates  throughout  the  play.  Indeed,  it  is  almost  a  mono 
logue,  and  the  character  of  Ariane  affords  rich  capabili 
ties  for  the  display  of  tragic  powers.  La  Harpe  says 
truly  of  Ariane,  "  Cette  piece  est  an  rang  de  celles  qu'on 
joue  souvent,  lorsqiCune,  actrice  veut  se  distinguer  par  un 
role  capable  de  la  faire  valoir" 

The  greenest  laurels  I  ever  won  in  London  (at  least 
of  the  Melpomone  chaplet)  were  awarded  to  the  inter 
pretation  of  the  wronged  Greek  maiden. 

Mr.  Davenport  represented  Theseus,  and  looked  the 
hero  —  the  authoj  permits  no  more. 

Phcedra,  sister  of  Ariadne,  rendered  by  a  mediocre 

(332) 


ARIADNE.  333 

actress,  would  have  been  an  unimpressive  character ; 
but  Miss  Vining,  in  the  fourth  act,  electrified  the  audi 
ence  by  Phoedra's  passionate  burst  of  remorse  after  she 
had  consented  to  betray  her  sister  and  fly  -with  The 
seus. 

In  Thomas  Corneille's  version,  Ariadne  is  not  suc 
cored  by  the  god  Bacchus,  according  to  the  old  classical 
story;  but  on  the  discovery  of  her  abandonment  by 
Theseus,  she  falls  upon  a  sword  and  expires.  The 
catastrophe  is  altered  by  Mr.  Oxenford  in  the  English 
version.  -  A  very  startling  scenic  effect  is  produced  by 
the  leaping  of  Ariadne  from  a  rock,  and  her  plunging 
into  the  sea,  while  the  ship  of  Theseus  is  disappearing 
in  the  distance. 

The  stage  execution  of  this  novel  termination  was 
managed  in  a  manner  worthy  of  mention.  Three  Ari- 
adnes,  all  similarly  costumed,  and  twin  in  resemblance, 
lent  their  aid  to  the  accomplishment  of  the  thrilling 
disaster. 

The  closing  scene  of  the  play  represents  a  wildly 
picturesque  portion  of  the  Island  of  JSaxos.  In  the 
distance  rolls  the  sea.  On  one  side  a  ledge  of  rocks 
rises  to  a  dizzy  height.  From  these  there  juts  out  a 
single  peak  —  the  loftiest  summit  of  the  island.  Ari 
adne  is  pacing  the  shore  when  the  terrible  intelligence 
is  disclosed  that  she  is  deserted  by  Theseus,  and  that 
Phredra  has  fled  in  his  company.  A  moment  after 
wards  she  beholds  in  the  distance  the  ship  which  is 
bearing  the  fugitives  to  Athens.  Frenzied  at  the 
sight,  she  rushes  up  the  rocks,  and  climbs  the  highest 
peak,  to  catch  the  last  glimpse  pf  the  vessel.  When  it 
disappears  she  is  overcome  by  despair,  and  leaps  into 
the  sea. 


334      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  climbing  of  these  rocks,  and  the  execution  of  the 
theatrical  stratagem  by  which  the  leap  appears  to  be 
made  by  Ariadne,  was  a  rather  perilous  experiment  for 
a  person  of  impetuous  temperament  and  easily  carried 
away  by  an  exciting  personation.  It  was  decided  that 
I  could  not  be  trusted  to  make  the  dangerous  ascent. 
A  young  girl  was  selected  from  the  ballet  who  strongly 
resembled  me.  Ariadne's  Grecian  robe,  with  its  rich 
border  of  blue  and  gold,  her  double  crown  and  jewelled 
zone,  were  duplicated  for  my  counterfeit  —  Ariadne 
the  second.  But  this  was  not  all ;  the  classic  costume 
had  to  be  again  repeated  for  the  toilet  of  Ariadne  the 
third  —  a  most  lifelike  lay  figure.  The  face,  arms,  and 
bust  of  the  latter  were  modelled  from  a  statue,  and 
were  too  faultless  for  the  other  two  Ariadnes  to  object 
to  their  inanimate  representative. 

It  was  found  no  easy  matter  at  rehearsal  to  persuade 
our  timid  Ariadne  the  second  to  even  walk  up  the  steep 
rocks.  She  stopped  and  shrieked  half  way,  protested 
she  was  dizzy  and  might  fall,  and  would  not  advance  a 
step  farther.  After  about  half  an  hour's  delay,  during 
which  the  poor  girl  was  encouraged,  coaxed,  and  scolded 
abundantly,  she  allowed  the  carpenter  who  planned  the 
rocky  pathway  to  lead  her  carefully  up  and  down  the 
declivity;  and  finally  she  rushed  up  alone.  Our  lay 
representative  was  couched  at  the  top,  ready  for  her 
flight  through  the  air.  Ariadne  the  second,  at  a  certain 
cue,  suddenly  falls  upon  her  face,  concealed  from  the 
audience  by  an  intercepting  rock.  At  the  same  moment 
a  spring  is  touched,  and  the  lay  figure,  with  uplifted 
arms,  leaps  from  the  cliff,  and  drops  into  the  abyss 
beneath. 

At  night,  Ariadne  the  first,  on  beholding  the  ship  of 


THE    THREE    ARIADXES.  335 

Theseus,  uttered  a  prolonged  shriek,  broke  away  from 
King  (Enarus  and  his  friends  who  impeded  her  steps,  and 
flew  up  the  rocks ;  but,  turning  a  cliff  at  no  great  height 
from  the  stage,  sprang  off  behind  the  scenes  in  the  arms 
of  a  person  stationed  to  receive  her.  Steps  for  her 
descent  were  found  unavailable.  At  the  instant  Ari 
adne  the  first  disappeared,  Ariadne  the  second  darted 
from  behind  the  cliff,  and  swiftly  clambered  the  rocky 
heights  until  she  reached  their  very  summit.  Ariadne 
the  first  uttered  the  impassioned  language  of  the  Greek 
maiden  from  behind  the  scenes,  while  Ariadne  the 
second  was  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  supposed  to  be 
speaking.  At  the  words,  "  Die,  Ariadne,  die ! "  from 
the  lips  of  Ariadne  first,  Ariadne  second  sinks  upon  the 
rock,  and  Ariadne  third  made  her  first  appearance,  and 
unhesitatingly  sprang  into  the  sea. 
•  The  resemblance  of  the  three  Ariadnes  must  have 
been  striking,  for  I  have  been  told  the  changes  could 
not  be  detected  by  the  most  powerful  opera  glass. 

The  illusion  was  so  perfect,  that  on  the  first  night  of 
the  representation,  when  Ariadne  leaped  the  rock,  a  man 
started  up  in  the  pit,  exclaiming,  in  a  tone  of  genuine 
horror,  «  Good  God !  she  is  killed ! " 

The  success  of  Ariadne  determined  the  manager  to 
offer  the  public  a  series  of  new  plays.  This  announce 
ment  caused  some  of  the  first  dramatists  in  London  to 
devote  their  talents  to  the  interest  of  the  theatre. 

The  first  play  accepted  was  the  historical  tragedy  of 
Marie  de  Meranie,  by  Mr.  Marston,  author  of  the 
Patrician's  Daughter,  Strathmore,  &c.  I  was  to  per 
sonate  Queen  Marie.* 

*  This  play  was  eventually  produced  by  Miss  Faucit,  at  the 
Olympic. 


336      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  Misanthrope,  by  Douglas  Jerrold,  was  the  next 
drama  put  in  rehearsal.  Mr.  Jerrold  read  his  play  to 
the  assembled  company  in  the  greenroom.  Miss 
Vining  and  myself  were  both  called  to  the  reading.  It 
was  anticipated  that  I  would  decline  the  role  of  the 
heroine  —  the  part  would,  in  that  case,  be  enacted  by 
Miss  Vining.  Mr.  Jerrold  expressed  a  desire  that  I 
should  imbody  the  character,  in  spite  of  its  avowed 
insignificance;  and,  after  listening  to  two  acts,  I  con 
sented. 

A  new  classical  drama,  entitled  Uxmal,  by  Mr.  He- 
raud,  containing  many  original  situations  and  some 
poetry  of  a  high  order,  was  under  consideration,  and 
would  have  been  accepted. 

Added  to  these,  Leigh  Hunt  had  sent  to  me  his  drama 
of  Lovers'  Amazements,  with  the  hope  that  I  would  be 
the  means  of  introducing  it  to  the  public.  This  drama 
had  been  written  some  years.  Leigh  Hunt  states  that 
the  equal  amount  of  interest  with  which  the  four  princi 
pal  characters  are  invested  had  been  the  barrier  to  the 
play's  production.  The  larger  portion  of  leading 
actors  dread  a  rival  on  the  dramatic  field  whom  the 
author  has  furnished  with  weapons  as  powerful  as  their 
own.  Lovers'  Amazements  was,  however,  accepted  at 
the  Olympic,  and  the  characters  were  to  have  been 
filled  by  Mr.  Davenport,  Mr.  Brooke,  Miss  Vining,  and 
myself. 

The  proverbial  jealousy  which  characterizes  even 
many  distinguished  members  of  the  profession  may  be 
detected  in  various  ways  by  an  audience ;  and  it  is  well 
that  it  should  be.  The  following  are  a  few  enlightening 
hints :  — 

One  strong  evidence  of  jealousy  makes  itself  apparent 


JEALOUSY    OF   ACTORS.  337 

when  an  actor  '"'backs  up  the  stage,"  as  it  is  called, 
while  another  is  delivering  important  speeches  addressed 
to  him,  thus  compelling  the  speaker  to  turn  his  back  to 
the  audience,  or  talk  over  his  shoulder  to  a  person 
behind  him.  When  the  parties  on  the  stage  do  not 
stand  side  by  side,  or  in  a  semicircle,  if  several  chance 
to  occupy  the  stage  at  the  same  time,  the  proper  situa- 
tion  of  the  one  who  has  the  most  important  passages  to 
deliver  (be  he  star  or  the  humblest  subordinate)  is  a 
little  in  retreat  of  the  others.  In  this  position  he  faces 
the  audience,  and  yet  looks  towards  those  whom  he  is 
addressing.  Few  are  the  leading  actors  who  will  accord 
this  just  privilege  to  an  actor  of  inferior  rank. 

Another  straw  by  which  a  shrewd  observer  may 
detect  which  way  the  wind  of  envy  blows,  is  the  readi 
ness  of  an  actor  to  interrupt  the  applause  which  the 
audience  are  about  to  bestow  upon  another,  by  hasten 
ing  his  own  replies  when  he  finds  the  plaudits  about  to 
commence.  An  audience  who  would  follow  the  play 
are  thus  compelled  to  be  silent ;  and,  through  the  trick 
of  an  envious  brother,  the  actor  loses  the  encouragement 
upon  which  many  depend  for  inspiration. 

"When  an  actor  distracts  the  attention  of  the  audi 
ence  by  inappropriate  or  superabundant  by-play,  or 
fidgeting  and  muttering  while  another  actor  is  deliver 
ing  effective  language,  it  is  a  certain  symptom  of  the 
narrowmindedness  which  dreads  to  behold  a  rival  win 
public  favor. 

The  perfect  representation  of  a  play  demands  that 
every  actor  should  be  allowed  the  untrammelled  use  of 
his  abilities.  It  is  often  in  the  power  of  the  audience 
themselves  to  secure  him  this  desirable  privilege. 

While  the  four  new  plays  which  I  have  mentioned 
22 


338      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

above  were  in  course  of  preparation,  our  tidings  from 
the  invalid  at  Trinidad  grew  sadder  than  ever.  Letters 
written  by  a  hand  so  feeble  that  it  seemed  hardly  able 
to  guide  the  pen  confirmed  our  worst  fears.  The  arri 
val  of  every  steamer  became  a  day  of  dread.  Every 
letter  was  the  herald  of  a  fresh  alarm,  until  the  pulses 
of  Hope  were  almost  stopped,  or  "  changed  to  long 
despairs." 

Just  at  this  period  letters  from  America  brought  in 
telligence  of  an  exciting  and  distressing  nature.  These 
combined  sorrows  had  a  serious  effect  upon  my  already 
overtasked  mind.  I  lost  the  power  of  mental  concen 
tration  so  essential  on  the  stage.  Worse  yet,  I  lost  my 
memory,  which  up  to  that  period  had  been  "  marble  to 
retain."  Sometimes  while  personating  characters  with 
which  I  was  most  familiar,  which  I  had  acted  again  and 
again  without  altering  a  syllable  of  the  text,  the  words 
would  suddenly  fade  from  my  thoughts;  I  could  not 
recall  even  the  subject  of  the  dialogue.  Prompting  was 
useless.  Now  and  then  I  recovered  myself  by  a  deter 
mined  effort ;  more  frequently  I  had  to  depend  upon  my 
sympathizing  fellow-laborers  to  conceal  as  far  as  possi 
ble  my  entire  obliviousness.  Behind  the  scenes  I  kept 
the  book  of  the  play  in  my  hand,  and  studied  continually, 
but  to  no  purpose.  I  constantly  went  upon  the  stage  in 
an  agony  of  dread,  uncertain  whether  I  could  struggle 
through  the  coming  scene.  The  theatre  became  to  me 
a  region  full  of  terrors. 

I  must  relate  as  rapidly  as  possible  the  events  next  in 
order.  They  are  too  painful  to  be  dwelt  upon.  I  would 
gladly  omit  them  could  I  do  so  conscientiously.  Against 
the  manager  of  the  Olympic  Theatre,  whose  many  chari 
ties,  whose  great  liberality,  and  unvarying  kindness 


BRAIN   FEVER.  339 

had  won  him  the  respect  and  esteem  of  the  whole  com 
pany,  were  brought  appalling  charges.  He  had  been, 
for  many  years,  the  accountant  of  an  Assurance  Asso 
ciation.  He  was  accused  of  some  species  of  fraud  or 
embezzlement.  I  believe  these  were  not  the  legal 
terms  used  —  it  was,  however,  their  meaning.  The 
theatre  was  suddenly  closed,  the  company  scattered  — 
the  manager,  confident,  to  all  appearance,  of  being 
acquitted,  gave  himself  up  for  trial. 

Several  days  previous  to  the  occurrence  of  this  last 
terrible  event,  I  had  become  so  seriously  ill  that  my 
name  was  withdrawn  from  the  bills.  Miss  Vining  as 
sumed  the  characters  which  I  usually  personated.  The 
new  shock  completed  what  an  accumulation  of  sorrows 
had  begun.  Immediately  after  the  closing  of  the  thea 
tre,  I  was  attacked  with  brain  fever.  The  four  suc 
ceeding  months  are  a  blank  to  me.  There  are  no  distinct 
records  in  the  book  of  memory. 

My  first  recollection  is  of  opening  my  eyes  (from  sleep, 

as  I  thought)  upon  the  countenance  of  Dr.  W tt, 

who  was  intently  gazing  in  my  face.  He  was  sitting  by 
my  bed.  A  nurse,  whose  kind  features  were  unfamiliar 
to  me,  stood  on  one  side — on  the  other  a  much-loved 
female  friend.  I  did  not  recognize  the  room  in  which  I 
was  lying.  I  had  been  removed  there  during  my  ill- 
ness.  I  remem%er  hearing  the  doctor  whisper  to  my 
friend,  '•  Hush !  She  is  coming  to  herself."  He  asked 
me  if  I  knew  him.  I  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and 
thought  the  question  an  odd  one ;  for  he  was  a  phy 
sician  whose  friendship  I  greatly  prized.  Of  the  lapse 

of  time  I  had  not  the  remotest  conception.  Dr.  W 

wisely  determined  not  to  deceive  me  in  regard  to  my 
illness  or  any  of  the  events  which  had  taken  place 


340      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

during  my  long  unconsciousness.  At  my  eager  in 
quiries  he  took  up  the  broken  chain  of  memory,  and 
supplied  the  missing  links.  Mr.  Mowatt  had  returned 
to  England  some  months  previous  —  he  was  better  —  I 
should  soon  be  allowed  to  see  him. 

The  theatre  —  it  was  still  closed.  It  had  been  opened 
but  one  night,  and  that  was  on  the  occasion  of  a  benefit 
given  to  Miss  Vining.  The  company  were  heavy  losers. 
The  manager  —  very  gently  the  kind  doctor  communi 
cated  the  fearful  intelligence  that  related  to  him.  He 
had  been  tried  —  convicted  —  severely  sentenced;  the 
shock  had  overpowered  his  reason;  he  had  perished 
the  same  night  by  his  own  hand.  The  jury  of  inquest 
had  brought  in  a  verdict  of  "  temporary  insanity." 

I  cannot  attempt  any  description  of  my  meeting  with 
the  one  being  whose  sufferings  had  been  as  great  as  my 
own ;  greater,  for  I  retained  no  recollection  of  physical 
afflictions.  Through  the  sunshine  of  joy  that  irradiated 
his  face  I  could  trace  many  a  deep  furrow,  ploughed  by 
grief  and  disease,  which  was  not  there  when  we  parted. 
His  health  was  still  in  the  most  precarious  state,  though 
he  had  rallied  during  the  spring  months.  He  landed 
in  England  before  any  letter  could  apprise  him  of  my 
illness. 

During  his  absence,  and  after  his  return,  I  had  been 
most  tenderly  nursed  by  faithful  frienofe,  to  whose  un 
wearied  devotion  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  I  owe 
my  life. 

How  well  I  recall  the  strange  thrill  that  ran  through 
me  when  I  first  lifted  my  hand  to  my  head  !  The  long, 
abundant  tresses  had  disappeared.  A  few  round  Vings 
of  hair  were  left  in  their  place.  They  told  me  that  my 
physician  and  friends  were  very  anxious  that  my  hair 


SHORN   TRESSES.  341 

should  be  preserved.  Its  weight  encumbered  my  head 
when  confined  by  comb  or  band,  and  when  loosened 
became  inextricably  tangled  about  my  shoulders.  I 
constantly  entreated  that  it  might  be  cut  off.  No  one 
was  willing  to  perform  the  office.  The  demand  was 
looked  upon  as  the  raving  of  fever.  One  day  I  had 
been  accidentally  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  and  a  pair 
of  scissors  lay  in  a  work  basket  near  me.  I  was  found 
sitting  up  in  bed,  and  the  shorn  ringlets  severed  closely 
from  the  head,  lying  in  every  direction.  The  mistress 
of  the  wardrobe,  who  on  the  night  of  my  London  debut 
had  sneered  at  the  "  heap  of  hair  "  as  an  unaristocratic 
adornment,  would  have  been  well  pleased. 

Mr.  Mowatt  had  visited  Dr.  "W n's  water-cure 

establishment  at  Malvern.  He  was  very  desirous  of 
making  further  trial  of  hydropathic  treatment.  I  also 
was  prepossessed  in  its  favor.  In  about  a  fortnight 
after  my  first  return  to  consciousness  I  was  able  to 
accompany  him  to  Malvern.  A  bed  was  made  for  me 
in  the  railway  carriage,  and  I  bore  the  journey  with  less 
fatigue  than  could  have  been  anticipated. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

Cottage  at  Malvern.  —  Malvern  Hills.  —  Water-cure  Establishment. 

—  Donkey  Rides.  —  Malvern    Donkey    Driver.  —  Adventures    on 
Horseback.  —  Hanly  Castle.  —  Return  to  London.  —  Skill  of  Dr. 

D n.  —  A  Sufferer's  Contemplation  of  Death.  —  Interview  with 

j)r.  j) n,  —  Life's  hardest  Necessity.  —  A  Last  Conversation. 

—  The  Parting. 

A  TINY  cottage,  that  looked  like  a  bird's  nest  dropped 
in  a  fairy  circle,  was  our  home  at  Malvern.  The  min 
iature  dwelling  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  garden  so 
luxuriant  that  the  floral  beauties,  crowding  cheek  to 
cheek,  struggling  to  overtop  each  other,  seemed  engaged 
in  a  perpetual  contention  which  should  unfold  most 
loveliness  to  the  sun  or  fling  most  fragrance  on  the 
breeze.  Close  to  the  cottage 

"  Rose  trees,  either  side  the  door,  were 

Growing  lithe  and  growing  tall ; 
Each  one  set  a  summer  warder 
For  the  keeping  of  the  hall  — 
With  a  red  rose,  and  a  white  rose,  leaning,  nodding  at  the  wall." 

Standing  in  the  little  garden,  facing  the  cottage,  a 
range  of  magnificent  hills  formed  the  background  of  the 
landscape  —  hills  that  appeared  to  be  young  mountains 
just  gaining  their  growth.  These  Malvern  hills  were 
the  scene  of  Langlande's  poetic  visions.  Their  pic 
turesque  grandeur  must  have  filled  any  dreamer's  brain 
with  shapes  of  ideal  beauty,  and  may  have  given  birth 
to  many  an  unpenned  inspiration. 

(349 


MALYERN   HILLS.  343 

Upon  an  eminence,  a  short  distance  from  our  cottage, 

stood  Dr.  TV n's  water-cure  establishment.  Both 

invalids  sought  the  benefits  of  hydropathy,  and  were 

attended  daily  by  Dr.  "W n.  But  candor  compels 

me  to  say  that  only  one  adhered  to  the  rules  enforced 
at  the  establishment.  After  the  first  month,  during 
which  period  my  health  made  little  visible  progress,  I 
decided  by  my  own  feelings  what  portion  of  the  treat 
ment  agreed  with  me,  and  discarded  that  which  did  not. 

Before  long  I  was  able  to  mount  a  donkey,  one  of 
the  most  docile  and  obedient  specimens  of  that  much- 
abused  race.  I  generally  rose  soon  after  the  sun  had 
set  me  the  example,  and,  while  the  morning  mists  were 
rolling  up  the  hills,  my  gentle  donkey  carried  me  to 
their  summit.  The  eye  never  wearied  of  daguerreo- 
typing  the  rich  panorama  that  encircled  these  mountain- 
like  hills.  On  every  side  fresh  prospects  were  unfolded 
—  their  aspect  varying  with  the  changing  lights.  I 
spent  many*  an  hour  watching,  in  wondering  admiration, 
the  kaleidoscope  hues  of  each  new  scenic  phase. 

Once  or  twice  Mr.  Mowatt  accompanied  me  in  a 
garden  chair,  but  the  exercise  was  found  too  fatiguing. 
I  took  my  daily  donkey  excursions,  attended  only  by 
the  boy  driver  walking  at  the  donkey's  side.  This 
youth  was  born  beneath  the  shadow  of  Malvern  hills, 
and  often  amused  me  with  his  original  conceptions  of 
the  world  beyond.  We  exchanged  opinions  on  various 
subjects ;  and  now  and  then,  under  the  startling  influ 
ence  of  a  new  idea,  he  would  come  to  a  sudden  stop  in 
his  trotting  walk,  and  exclaim,  "  Good  golly !  you 
don't  believe  that  now  —  surety  (pronounced  lie)  you 
doesn't ! "  Who  can  say  through  what  narrow  crevices 
the  light  of  truth  may  shine  in  upon  a  darkened  mind  ? 


344       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

What  tiny  seed,  casually  scattered,  may  take  root  in 
unbroken  soil  and  spring  heavenward  ? 

I  believe  I  reciprocated  some  of  the  donkey-boy's 
chagrin  when  his  attendance  was  no  longer  needed  and 
the  donkey  was  exchanged  for  a  horse.  A  solemn- 
looking  steed  it  was,  decidedly  advanced  in  years,  and 
warranted  to  have  renounced  all  youthful  indiscretions. 
Trusting  to  his  good  character,  I  started  upon  my  first 
ride  unattended.  The  ladies  at  Malvern  frequently 
make  excursions  on  horseback  alone.  My  staid-looking 
Pegasus  unexpectedly  ran  away  with  me,  and  was 
stopped  by  some  countrymen.  We  subsequently  learned 
that  he  was  once  quite  a  celebrated  racer,  and  had  won 
several  trophies.  The  approach  of  age  had  caused  his 
present  retirement  into  private  life. 

I  rode  him  every  day  for  six  weeks  ;  and  he  never  ran 
away  with  me  but  once  more,  and  then  he  was  influ 
enced  by  the  dangerous  effect  of  bad  example.  I  was 
riding  with  a  friend.  Her  horse  took  fright  and  ran. 
Mine  called  to  mind  his  ancient  victories,  and  did  not 
choose  to  appear  wanting  in  spirit.  The  two  horses 
passed  each  other  again  and  again  on  the  road,  both 
riders  being  unable  to  hold  them  in.  I  could  only  cry 
out  to  my  friend,  as  I  darted  by  her,  "  Keep  your  seat, 
Fanny  —  keep  your  seat,  and  there  is  no  danger!" 
Her  exhausted  "  I  can't !  I  can't ! "  terrified  me  so 
much,  that  by  a  sudden  impulse  I  turned  my  horse's 
head  into  a  hawthorn  hedge.  He  stopped  suddenly, 
and  evinced  some  slight  displeasure  at  the  indignity. 
On  looking  back  I  saw  my  friend  lying  upon  her  horse, 
almost  insensible,  and  a  gentleman  holding  her  reins 
with  those  of  his  own  horse.  I  rode  back  to  them. 
The  stranger  proved  to  be  a  physician.  We  supported 


HANLT    CASTLE.  345 

the  now  helpless  equestrian  between  us,  and  walked  our 
horses  to  Hanly  Castle,  which  was  just  in  sight.  The 
castle  is  occupied  by  some  of  the  descendants  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  of  Charlecote  and  Shakspearian  memory. 
We  alighted,  and  my  friend  was  carried  into  the  house. 
Our  unexpected  but  most  gracious  host  and  hostess 
tenderly  ministered  to  the  sufferer,  and  for  some  time 
after  she  revived  would  not  allow  us  to  leave  their 
hospitable  roof.  The  horses  were  sent  home  by  a 
groom,  with  a  message  informing  Mr.  Mowatt  of  our 
safety.  About  an  hour  afterwards  the  carriage  of  our 
host  was  brought  to  the  door,  and  he  accompanied  us 
home.  From  that  time  I  rode  alone,  and  found  my 
sedate  steed  more  manageable  than  when  in  company. 

After  four  months'  sojourn  in  Malvern  we  returned 
to  London.  Towards  the  close  of  our  stay  Mr.  Mowatt 
had  grown  rapidly  worse.  He  almost  entirely  lost  the 
use  of  his  limbs.  The  strong  arms  of  a  friend  were 
needed  to  bear  him  from  his  sofa  to  the  carriage.  All 
his  energies,  physical  and  mental,  appeared  suddenly  to 
fail.  Night  brought  to  his  sufferings  no  oblivious  balm, 
morning  no  invigorating  relief. 

At  this  crisis,  the  entreaties  of  friends  induced  us  to 

call  in  the  celebrated  Dr.  D n,  the  discoverer  and 

promulgator  of  the  chrono-thermal  practice*  of  medi 
cine.  We  were  already  personally  acquainted  with  him 
and  his  lovely  wife  —  and  were  familiar  with  certain 
of  his  cures,  which  almost  deserve  the  name  of  mar 
vellous.  With  his  coming  departing  hope  dawned  anew, 
and  once  more  painted  the  bow  of  promise  upon  our 
future.  His  skill  procured  the  sufferer  almost  instanta 
neous  relief — arresting  the  disease  which  was  beyond 
mortal  cure. 


346  f     AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  invalid  was  now  confined  entirely  to  his  bed, 
but  the  spirit  of  pain  had  been  exorcised.  A  holy  calm 
diffused  itself  about  that  death  bed,  as  though  the  breath 
ings  of  good  angels  enveloped  it  with  a  heavenly  aura. 
The  veil  of  eternity  was  falling  around  it  —  not  in  fu 
nereal  blackness  that  speaks  of  annihilation,  but  in  the 
golden  and  purple  folds  of  promise,  descending  from 
the  "  new  heavens."  To  him  who  lay  upon  that  couch, 
in  purified  patience  of  spirit,  Death  was  a  smiling  angel 
of  invitation,  throwing  open  the  crystal  portals  of  the 
future,  and  joyfully  beckoning  the  new  guest  into  man 
sions  of  more  perfect  life  —  a  life  of  holier  uses  —  more 
ineffable  joys  —  more  conscious  individuality  —  more 
angelic  progression.  Very  often,  with  placid  brow  and 
in  serene  tones,  he  spoke  of  the  coming  change.  His 
faith  was  so  full  of  living,  quickening  certainty,  that  it 
rebuked  the  tears  whose  rebellious  fall  would  have  pro 
faned  sirch  a  death  bed.  He  had  not  dwelt  in  the 
suburbs  of  the  Holy  City,  but  entered  into  its  innermost 
temple.  The  doctrines  of  the  New  Church  had  not 
been  received  into  his  memory  merely,  but  had  come 
forth  into  his  daily  life,  and  been  inscribed  upon  his 
heart.  A  never-wavering  trust  had  cast  out  fear,  and 
given  to  the  foot  of  the  Summoner  the  sound  of  music. 

His  wcfrldly  arrangements  were  made  with  the  me 
thodical  precision  that  usually  characterized  his  actions  — 
his  still-entangled  affairs  were  smoothed  as  far  as  pos 
sible.  That  over,  his  own  words  were,  "  I  am  ready  to 
go ;  yet  I  have  found  sweetness  enough  in  this  life  to  be 
willing  to  stay."  "  Thy  will,  not  mine  ! "  was  his  spirit's 
true  expression. 

A  couple  of  months  passed  on,  and  the  invalid  grew 
decidedly  better.  He  never  left  his  bed,  yet  he  gained 


LIFE'S    HABDEST   NECESSITY.  347 

strength  —  his  sight  was  partially  restored  —  his  ever- 
cheerful  bearing  often  verged  upon  actual  gayet y.  The 
skill  of  his  physician  was  fighting  a  hard  battle  with  the 
great  conqueror. 

His  symptoms  became  so  favorable  that  I  could  not 
but  cling  to  the  probability  that  he  might  yet  recover. 
After  a  time  he  did  the  same.  My  own  health,  which 
was  not  entirely  restored  when  I  left  Malvern,  under 
the  care  of  Dr.  D n  became  thoroughly  reestab 
lished,  and  I  had  need  for  all  my  strength. 

My  long  illness  had  commenced  in  the  spring  — 
winter  was  approaching.  As  soon  as  my  perfect  res 
toration  became  known,  I  had  numerous  offers  for  the 
atrical  engagements.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  Mr. 
Mowatt  disclosed  to  me  that  by  far  the  larger  portion 
of  all  we  possessed,  the  hard  earnings  of  a  long  period 
of  exertion,  had,  for  business  purposes,  been  left  in  the  y 
hands  of  the  manager  of  the  Olympic  Theatre. 

In  his  ruin  it  had  been  swept  away.  It  became 
needful  that  I  should  resume  my  labors  the  instant  I 
felt  able.  I  pass  over  what  this  intelligence  was  to  me. 
Life  in  all  its  bitter  necessities  —  its  hard  requirements 
—  had  brought  no  extremity  that  tried  me  as  did  this. 

My  most  advantageous  offers  were  in  the  provinces. 
I  must  leave  my  vigils  beside  a  couch  which  I  still  be 
lieved  might  be  the  bed  of  death,  to  wear  the  mockery 
of  glittering  robes  in  the  frigid  atmosphere  of  a  theatre. 

I  sought  a  private  interview  with  Dr.  D n,  and 

entreated  him  to  disclose  to  me  his  patient's  true  con 
dition.  The  doctor's  reluctance  to  comply  with  my 
request  was  almost  answer  sufficient.  I  told  him 
frankly  our  exact  situation,  and  implored  him  not  to 
conceal  from  me  the  trutk  T  shall  never  forget  or 

i 


348       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

cease  to  be  grateful  for  the  feeling  which  he  exhibited. 
His  answer  was,  "  I  have  seen  so  many  wonders  ef 
fected  by  a  proper  medical  treatment,  that  I  am  never 
inclined  to  say  that  a  recovery  is  impossible.  In  the 
case  of  Mr.  Mowatt,  I  fear  that  it  is  improbable.  No 
one  can  decide  how  long  he  may  live.  It  may  be  a  few 
months,  and  it  may  be  much  longer." 

"  Might  the  time  be  even  shorter  ?  " 

"  It  might  be  ;  but  he  appears  so  much  better  that  I 
dc  not  anticipate  any  immediate  danger. 

"And  what  must  I  do?" 

"  Any  thing  rather  than  excite  him  by  opposition, 
if  you  would  not  produce  fatal  consequences." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  must  leave  London  and 
fulfil  some  of  these  engagements  ?  for  the  most  ad 
vantageous  one,  the  one  he  entreats  me  to  accept,  is 
in  Dublin." 

"  Yes ;  if  he  is  bent  upon  it,  you  must  go." 

I  dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  beholding  "  cares  for 
the  morrow  "  reenter,  with  disturbing  influence,  the  now 
peaceful  mind  of  one  whose  morrows  on  earth  were 
numbered.  Without  further  hesitation,  I  told  him  I 
would  go.  Eichlydid  his  reply  reward  the  struggle 
for  self-government  which  enabled  me  to  make  the 
decision. 

The  Dublin  engagement  was  accepted  for  January. 
I  was  to  remain  absent  but  three  weeks,  and  then  hasten 
back  to  London. 

Mr.  Davenport  was  at  that  period  engaged  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre,  having  been  selected  by  Mr.  Ma- 
cready  as  his  support  during  his  farewell  of  the  stage. 
This  precluded  the  possibility  of  Mr.  Davenport's  ac 
companying  me.  It  was  finally  decided  that  I  should 


A   LAST    CONVERSATION.  349 

make  the  journey  alone,  attended  by  Mrs.  Renshaw  in 
the  capacity  of  lady's  maid.  Her  name  has  before 
been  mentioned  in  these  memoirs  as  the  person  whose 
courage  saved  the  life  of  a  young  girl  at  the  Maryle- 
bone  Theatre.  This  instance  of  presence  of  mind, 
added  to  her  well-known  respectability  and  her  accom 
plishments  as  a  costumer,  caused  her  to  be  selected  by 
Mr.  Mowatt  as  a  trustworthy  companion.  She  had  offi 
ciated  as  mistress  of  the  wardrobe  in  two  theatres,  but 
had  never  before  entered  service.  She  had  been  a 
widow  for  more  than  twenty  years.  The  maid  whom 
I  have  several  times  alluded  to  in  previous  chapters 
was  her  elder  sister,  and  had  waited  upon  me  ever  since 
I  came  to  London.  She  was  at  this  period  Mr.  Mow- 
att's  nurse,  a  very  pattern  of  devotion  and  patience, 
and  was  to  remain  with  him. 

The  night  before  I  commenced  my  journey,  the  inva 
lid  called  me  to  his  bedside.  He  pointed  out  a  small 
trunk,  and  said,  that,  should  it  be  the  will  of  our  Lord 
that  this  parting  was  our  last  on  earth,  I  would 
find  in  that  trunk  several  letters  —  one  of  which  he 
trusted  would  prove  full  of  comfort.  The  doctor  had 
warned  me  to  give  way  to  no  emotion  ;  and  I  could  but 
listen  in  silence  while  he  spoke  of  the  future,  the  pres 
ent,  the  past.  He  talked  of  the  child  who  had  walked 
by  his  side  to  school  —  of  the  young  girl  he  had  edu 
cated,  the  spring  days  of  whose  existence  he  had 
filled  with  earth's  rosiest  hues ;  of  the  companion  whom, 
when  life  ceased  to  be  a  pastime,  God  had  gifted  with 
strength  to  bear  one  half  the  appointed  burden.  It  was 
past  midnight  when  I  left  him,  sinking  peacefully  to 
sleep;  and 

"I  charged  my  soul  to  hold  my  body  strengthened  for  the  sun." 


350      AUTOBIOGKAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Well  I  might;  for  with  that  morning  came  the  fixed  con- 
victioji  that  I  was  looking  for  the  last  time  upon  a  face 
which,  at  least  when  it  turned  to  me,  had  ever  been 
full  of  tenderness. 

The  train  for  Liverpool  started  soon  after  daylight. 
Long  before  that  period  Mrs.  Renshaw  had  been 
called  to  the  bedside  of  the  invalid,  and  I  was  asked  to 
complete  my  preparations  in  my  own  little  room  ad 
joining. 

When  I  was  again  summoned,  I  did  not  inquire  what 
had  been  the  subject  of  conversation.  I  soon  discov 
ered  it  when  I  found  that  I  had  not  a  settled  peculiarity 
—  an  odd  fancy  —  an  especial  taste  with  which  my 
companion  had  not  suddenly  become  acquainted.  True 
to  her  promise,  she  used  her  best  endeavors  to  gratify 
the  tastes,  yield  to  the  fancies,  and  respect  the  pecu 
liarities.  When  her  perfect  knowledge  of  my  ways 
drew  from  me  many  a  surprised  "  Who  told  you  to  do 
that  ?  "  or,  "  How  did  you  know  I  liked  that  ?  "  there  was 
always  the  same  answer. 

The  moment  of  parting  came.  The  suffering  one 
left  behind  retained  his  smiling  composure  to  the  end. 
For  me,  I  might  well  be  thankful  that  his  last  words 
were  a  blessing;  for  I  never  heard  the  sound  of  his 
voice  again. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  Iron  Duke.  — Arrival  in  Dublin. — A  Dilemma.  —  "  Unprotect 
ed  Females." — Interview  with  theatrical  Housekeeper.  —  Hunting 
for  Lodgings.  —  The  invisible  Avant  Courrier.  — Mr.  Calcraft. — 
G.  V.Brooke.  — First  Rehearsal.— Debut  at  Theatre  Royal- 
Dublin  Audience. — Attachment  of  the  Irish  to  America.  —  The 
Freeman's  Journal.  —  Production  of  Armand.  —  Peculiarities  of 
the  Dublin  Pit  and  Gallery.  —  Persecution  of  an  Actor.  —  An 
amusing  Device.  —  My  last  Night.  —  Scene  at  the  Stage  Door.  — 
Dublin  Friends.  —  The  Invalid  in  London.  —  Extracts  from  his 
daily  Letters. — Engagement  at  Newcastle  upon  Tyne. — Depart 
ure  from  Dublin. 

WE  crossed  the  channel  in  the  steamer  called  the 
Iron  Duke,  the  strongest  and  swiftest  on  the  line.  I 
found  comfort  in  the  name ;  it  accorded  with  my  expe 
riences.  Iron  seemed  the  inflexible  necessity  that 
launched  me  upon  this  new  and  lonely  career.  Iron- 
like  must  the  courage  be  which  could  enable  me  to  face 
the  future  ;  of  iron  the  strength  which  was  needed  to 
endure  the  present. 

Every  one  who  has  crossed  the  channel  will  remem 
ber  the  physical  distress  produced  by  the  quick,  sharp, 
jerking  motion  of  the  waves  —  far  more  trying  than  the 
regular  rolling  of  the  ocean.  All  night  the  rain  poured 
in  torrents  ;  but  we  were  told  that  our  passage  was  quite 
smooth.  "Then  Heaven  help  us  through  the  rough 
ones  ! "  was  our  involuntary  ejaculation. 

At  daylight  we  reached  Kingston.  The  train  start 
ed  at  eight  o'clock,  and  we  arrived  in  Dublin  at  half 

(351) 


352       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

past  eight.  We  expected  Mr.  Calcraft,  the  lessee  and 
manager  of  the  Theatre  Royal,  where  I  was  engaged, 
to  meet  us  at  the  station.  He  was  not.  there.  We 
waited  until  every  passenger  had  disappeared  ;  still  he 
did  not  come.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  This  was  my 
first  journey  unsurrounded  by  the  tender  protection  of 
relatives  or  friends,  and  my  London  maid  had  never 
before  been  sixty  miles  removed  from  the  sound  of 
Bow  bells.  The  two  forsaken-looking  beings,  who,  in 
frozen  bewilderment,  stood  shivering  beside  a  huge  pile 
of  trunks,  would  have  added  a  speaking  addition  (though 
they  were  nearly  speechless)  to  Punch's  portraits  of 
"  unprotected  females."  We  were  soon  surrounded  by 
an  army  of  cabmen,  who  intermingled  their  offers  to 
transport  us  "any  where  under  the  face  of  the  sun*' 
with  a  flood  of  most  ludicrously  flattering  ejaculations. 
But  what  would  have  been  the  height  of  impertinence 
in  an  English  cab  driver  flowed  so  naturally  from  the 
lips  of  a  son  of  green  Erin  that  it  disarmed  rebuke. 

Not  knowing  how  to  dispose  of  ourselves^  for  we 
were  decidedly  overburdened  with  our  own  safe  keep 
ing,  we  drove  to  the  theatre  in  hope  of  finding  the  man 
ager.  Mr.  Calcraft  was  not  there ;  it  was  too  early  in 
the  morning.  Who  was  there  ?  Nobody  but  the  old 
housekeeper,  and  she  was  not  up.  Would  she  get  up  ? 
"  Sure  and  she  would,  if  we  could  wait,"  was  the  answer 
received.  We  wrapped  ourselves  in  our  travelling 
blankets  for  protection  against  the  frosty  air  that  whis 
tled  in  from  every  side  of  the  loosely-built  Irish  vehicle, 
and  waited. 

By  and  by  the  housekeeper  thrust  her  good-humored 
face  out  of  the  stage  door,*  and,  after  giving  us  an 

*  Door  leading  from  behind  the  scenes. 


IRISH    HOUSEKEEPER.  353 

inquisitive  reconnaissance,  advanced.  There  was  con 
siderable  cap-tying,  and  hook-and-eyes  clasping,  and 
other  adjustments  of  her  hurried  toilet  accomplished 
on  her  way  to  the  carriage. 

I  told  her  who  we  were.  "  Och,  and  is  it  the  new  star 
lady  from  London  ?  Sure,  and  you're  welcome ;  and  it's 
every  body  that's  wanting  to  see  you  ! "  was  her  hearty 
salutation. 

I  inquired  for  Mr.  Calcraft.  He  expected  us  in  the 
half  past  nine  o'clock  train,  and  would  be  at  the  station 
at  that  hour.  Had  he  engaged  a  suite  of  apartments 
as  I  had  requested  by  letter? 

"  Sure,  and  he  hasn't,"  was  the  answer.  "  He  said 
ye'es  wanted  three  rooms  on  a  floor,  opening  togither, 
and  they  wasn't  to  be  found  in  all  Dublin." 

"  Did  he  secure  any  other  rooms  for  me  ?  " 

"  Bless  you,  no ;  he  was  afraid  nothing  else  would 
suit." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Lord  love  ye  !  Sure,  and  we'll  find  some  place  for 
ye  the  day  !  Couldn't  ye  just  step  into  the  theatre 
and  wait  a  while  ?  " 

"Wait  a  while  in  a  cold,  dark  theatre,  when  we  were 
freezing  and  starving,  and  the  shelter  of  a  warm  room 
was  almost  indispensable  to  the  prolongation  of  our 
lives ! 

"  I  can't  wait,"  I  answered ;  "  we  will  look  for  lodg 
ings  ourselves ;  if  we  find  them,  I  will  send  you  the 
address.  If  not,  we  will  return  here." 

"  Ye  don't  mane  you're  going  hunting  for  rooms  at 
this  hour  of  the  morning,  and  in  that  hasty  sort  of  a 
style  ?  " 

23 


354      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  an  American,  and  we  always  make 
haste!" 

The  good  woman  gave  voluble  vent  to  her  astonish 
ment  at  the  proposed  rapid  mode  of  transacting  business. 

What  part  of  the  city  should  we  drive  to  ?  was  the 
next  question ;  for  I  was  not  acquainted  with  a  single 
Dublin  locality.  My  London  friends  had  supplied  me 
with,  letters  of  introduction.  I  remembered  that  the 

address  of  one,  to  Lady  R e,  was  Merrion  Square. 

The  name  sounded  musically  attractive.  Merrion 
Square  must  be  some  pleasant  place.  "  Drive  to  Mer 
rion  Square,"  was  the  order  given  the  coachman,  "  and 
stop  at  the  first  baker's  or  green  grocer's  after  you 
get  there." 

Merrion  Square  was  quickly  reached,  and  my  antici 
pations  of  the  agreeable  vicinity  were  realized.  We 
stopped  at  a  green  grocery.  Mrs.  Renshaw  alighted, 
and  inquired  of  the  smiling  grocer's  wife  whether  there 
were  any  desirable  lodgings  to  be  obtained  in  the  neigh- 
borhorhood. 

She  received  a  direction  to  three  houses  that  had  un 
occupied  suites  of  apartments.  We  drove  to  the  first, 
which  was  close  to  the  square.  The  exterior  was  suf 
ficiently  inviting ;  the  interior  passed  from  good  to 
better.  There  were  three  large,  well-furnished  rooms 
on  the  second  floor  —  precisely  what  we  wanted.  Ten 
minutes  after  we  stepped  from  the  carriage  the  rooms 
had  been  engaged,  I  was  lying  on  a  comfortable  sofa, 

and  Mrs.  R was  preparing  a  refreshing  cup  of  tea. 

So  much  for  our  American  mode  of  helping  ourselves. 
Had  we  trusted  to  the  exertions  of  our  Irish  friends, 
possibly  these  "  consummations  devoutly  to  be  wished  " 
might  have  blessed  us  about  midday,  or  at  nightfall. 


DUBLIN.  355 

"  This  looks  like  some  sort  of  Aladdin's  lamp  busi 
ness  ! "  exclaimed  my  wondering  attendant,  looking 
around  her.  "  It  seems  as  though  these  rooms  had  been 
all  prepared  by  our  just  wishing  for  them,  and  as  if 
they  were  waiting  ready  for  us  to  walk  in ! " 

It  certainly  did  appear  as  though  some  invisible 
avant  courrier  had  made  all  necessary  preparations  for 
our  comfort  and  smoothed  away  every  difficulty.  I 
never  could  get  this  odd  notion  out  of  my  head.  We 
remained  in  these  singularly-obtained  lodgings  through 
our  whole  stay  in  Dublin,  and  had  ample  cause  to  be 
pleased  with  them.  From  our  landlady  and  her  truly 
beautiful  daughter  we  received  the  most  devoted  atten 
tions.  The  latter  was  one  of  the  many  perfect  speci 
mens  of  female  loveliness  which  I  beheld  in  Dublin. 
I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  the  palm  of  feminine 
perfection  belongs  to  the  daughters  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Mr.  Calcraft  called  upon  me.  x 
I  found  him  a  gentleman  of  polished  manners,  accus 
tomed  to  the  most  refined  society,  and  highly  educated. 
With  his  dramatic  authorship  I  was  already  acquainted. 
I  had  very  frequently  acted  in  his  version  of  the  Bride 
of  Lammermoor.  Scott's  thrilling  history  of  the  broken 
hearted  maiden  was  originally  dramatized  by  Calcraft 
for  Mrs.  Henry  Siddons.  She  personated  Lucy  Ash- 
ton  a  number  of  times  at  the  Dublin  Theatre  Royal,  of 
which  he  was  manager.  I  enacted  the  character  upon 
the  same  stage. 

When  I  arrived  in  Dublin  Mr.  Brooke  had  just 
fulfilled  an  engagement  of  some  length.  He  was  re 
engaged  to  appear  with  me.  His  was  the  only  familiar 
face  that  I  saw  at  my  first  rehearsal.  Lonely  I  could 
not  but  feel ;  but  I  had  no  trials  to  undergo  similar  to 


J 


356      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

those  which  rendered  my  first  rehearsals  in  Manchester 
and  London  a  species  of  theatrical  purgatory.  The 
influence  of  a  gentlemanlike  manager  was  felt  through 
out  the  theatre.  The  actors  were  courteous  in  the 
extreme,  and  vied  with  each  other  in  readiness  to  con 
form  to  the  wishes  of  the  stranger. 

We  opened  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons.  I  chose  that 
character  because  there  is  no  necessity  for  exertion  in 
the  first  two  acts,  and  abundance  of  time  to  get  over 
any  attacks  of  stage  fright. 

Happily  the  dreaded  stage  demon  kept  far  off  from 
me.  I  scarcely  experienced  a  nervous  tremor,  and 
never  made  a  more  self-possessed  first  appearance. 

I  know  of  no  audience  who  exert  so  inspiring  an 
influence  over  an  actor  as  the  Dublin.  Their  thorough 
enjoyment,  their  quick  comprehension,  their  ready 
responsiveness  to  exalted  sentiments,  their  genuine 
tokens  of  delight,  often  expressed  in  a  comic,  and 
always  in  a  hearty  manner,  bear  the  performer  as  upon 
a  triumphant  wave  to  the  Elysian  shores  of  success. 
Their  enthusiasm  is  contagious,  and  rouses  his  energies, 
kindles  his  ambition,  and  renders  even  labor  a  pleasure. 
To  act  tamely  before  that  audience  would  be  an  impos 
sibility.  No  genius  could  slumber  in  such  a  vivifying 
atmosphere,  no  aspirations  become  weary,  no  ardor 
grow  cold. 

My  debut  was  a  highly  successful  one.  The  Dublin 
press  were  prodigal  of  panegyrics.  The  spirit  of  chiv 
alry  which  always  animates  the  breast  of  an  Irishman 
towards  womanhood  would  have  made  them  regard  me 

O 

with  favorable  eyes ;  but  that  I  was  a  stranger,  and  an 
American,  was  sufficient  excuse  for  any  courteous  ex 
travagance.  How  dear  America  and  her  children  are 


DUBLIN   AUDIENCES.  357 

to  Ireland  was  proved  to  me  daily,  and  in  many  flatter 
ing  ways,  during  my  stay  in  Dublin. 

I  quote  the  paragraph  which  prefaces  the  critique 
upon  my  first  performance,  which  appeared  in  the 
Freeman's  Journal,  to  make  apparent  that,  in  spite  of 
the  enthusiasm  which  I  have  described  as  characterizing 
a  Dublin  audience,  they  claim  for  themselves  the  most 
fastidious  discrimination  as  critics  :  — 

"  On  last  evening  Mrs.  Mowatt  appeared  for  the  first  time  before 
our  Dublin  audience.  This  event,  doubtless  highly  interesting  to 
the  admirers  of  dramatic  novelty,  and  looked  forward  to  with  pleas 
urable  anticipations  by  connoisseurs  who  constitute  critical  au 
thority  on  affairs  dramatic,  must  have  been  considered  an  occasion 
somewhat  trying  by  an  artist  of  whose  natural  genius  and  histrionic 
ability  public  report  has  spoken  so  highly,  sustained  by  the  ornate 
and  elaborate  criticisms  of  the  American  and  English  press. 
Throughout  the  whole  range  of  stage  representation,  actors  and 
actresses,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  from  Macready  and  Sid- 
dons  to  the  humblest  professor  of  light  comedy,  all  have  dreaded 
the  ordeal  of  a  Dublin  audience.  It  might,  perhaps,  seem  needless 
to  remind  the  readers  of  this  journal  of  the  fastidious  character  of 
that  same  audience,  the  most  considerate,  as  it  is  the  most  just  and 
generous,  of  any  before  which  true  genius  has  ever  presented  its 
claims.  We  would  not  do  so  were  it  not  that  we  wish  to  enhance 
the  magnitude  and  the  delicacy  of  the  compliment  paid  on  last 
evening  by  that  audience  to  the  fair  and  gifted  actress  who  came 
before  them  as  a  daughter  of  America  —  the  adopted  land  of  thou 
sands  of  our  countrymen." 

Armand  was  produced  towards  the  close  of  the  en 
gagement,  and  never  created  a  more  powerful  sensation. 
Mr.  Brooke's  delineation  of  the  peasant  Armand  was 
interrupted  by  cheers  from  the  commencement  to  the 
close  of  the  play.  The  galleries  fairly  seemed  inclined 
to  make  a  descent  upon  the  stage,  and  carry  him  off 
upon  their  shoulders.  At  the  summons  before  the 
curtain,  after  the  most  deafening  clamors  of  applause, 


358      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

as  I  was  making  my  final  acknowledgment,  the  cry 
rose  of  "  Nine  cheers  for  America ! "  The  pit  started  to 
their  feet,  and  lustily  gave  the  cheers  with  waving  hats 
and  handkerchiefs.  When  the  last  peal  ceased,  the 
orchestra  struck  up  "  Hail,  Columbia !  "  and  drew  down 
a  new  response.  Our  national  air  was  immediately 
followed  by  "  St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning,"  which 
always  creates  a  furor  of  patriotic  delight. 

The  audience  are  particularly  addicted  to  audible 
criticisms.  It  was  quite  usual  for  them,  when  struck 
by  any  of  my  efforts,  to  cry  out,  "  Bravo,  America !  " 
"  America  forever !  "  "  Long  life  to  young  America !  " 
The  pit  and  galleries  are  in  the  habit  of  constantly 
addressing  the  actors  upon  the  stage,  expressing  grati 
fication  or  displeasure  in  very  decided  terms.  "  Bless 
your  swate  face  !  "  or,  "  The  Lord  love  ye  !  "  is  not  an 
unusual  salutation  to  a  favorite  female  performer ;  and 
similar  expressions  of  affectionate  delight  are  called  forth 
by  the  action  of  the  play  in  which  she  is  concerned.  In 
spite  of  their  readiness  to  be  pleased,  they  are  also  alarm 
ingly  despotic,  and  their  chiding  is  often  merciless.  With 
some  of  Shakspeare's  plays  they  are  so  conversant,  that, 
if  an  actor  make  a  mistake  in  the  text,  they 'will  correct 
him  with  a  rebuke,  and  force  him  to  repeat  the  passage. 

I  was  a  witness  to  one  painful  instance  of  their  tyran 
ny  over  an  innocently  offending  individual.  We  were 
performing  Planche's  comedietta  of  Faint  Heart.  The 
actor  who  personated  the  old  Marquis  had  rather  an 
indistinct  voice,  caused,  I  think,  by  loss  of  teeth.  The 
galleries  cried  out  to  him,  "  Spake  a  little  louder,  will 
ye  ?  "  His  efforts  to  render  his  voice  audible  were  not 
sufficiently  successful  to  please  them,  and  they  continued 
to  shout,  at  intervals,  "  Spake  up ! "  "  Spake  up,  old  gray- 


PERSECUTION    OF   AN   ACTOR.  359 

beard !  "  The  actor  became  so  much  confused  that  he 
could  scarcely  speak  at  all.  In  an  undertone  I  entreated 
him  to  go  on  without  noticing  the  interruptions.  He  en 
deavored  to  do  so,  but  signally  failed.  Somebody  then 
sang  out,  "  Take  a  little  wather ! "  and  another  voice 
cried,  "  Blow  your  nose,  will  ye  ?  and  let's  hear  your 
voice  I  "  Each  of  these  recommendations  was  followed 
by  a  peal  of  merriment.  The  persecuted  Marquis 
trembled  visibly,  and  the  big  drops  of  moisture  began 
to  roll  from  his  brows.  Still  he  uttered  every  word  of 
his  part  correctly,  though  his  voice  continued  thick  and 
husky.  All  at  once  some  individual,  who  fancied  him 
self  particularly  penetrating,  called  out,  "  Ah,  its  drunk 
he  is ! "  «  He's  drunk !  "  «  He's  drunk  !  "  was  echoed  on 
every  side,  and  the  accusation  was  accompanied  by 
groans  and  hisses. 

The  man  was  not  in  the  least  degree  intoxicated  or 
excited  by  any  stimulus,  as  was  afterwards  proved  when 
lie  was  called  up  before  the  manager.  But  shame  and 
terror  at  the  imputation  upon  his  sobriety  almost  took 
from  him  the  power  of  articulation,  and  as  he  led  me 
from  the  stage  (which  the  action  of  the  play  demanded) 
he  almost  reeled.  His  emotion  was  so  great  behind 
the  scenes  that  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all  consolation. 
In  a  few  minutes  we  were  obliged  to  reappear  upon  the 
stage  together.  No  sooner  had  he  opened  his  lips  than 
he  was  greeted  with  the  salutations,  "  Ah,  ye  drunken 
loon  ! "  "  Aren't  ye  ashamed  ? "  "  Is  that  the  respect 
ye  show  to  a  lady  ?  "  "  Go  home  wid  ye  ! "  &c.  The 
unfortunate  actor  was  so  thoroughly  confounded  that 
fright  actually  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  man  not 
sober.  We  "  cut  the  scene "  as  much  as  possible.  I 
blended  my  speeches  in  a  manner  that  precluded  the 


360       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

necessity  of  his  answering,  and  lie  soon  had  the  oppor 
tunity  of  again  making  his  exit.  The  exigencies  of 
the  play  required  that  the  Marquis  should  make  his 
appearance  once  more  before  its  close.  His  cue  was 
spoken  in  a  loud  tone,  and  his  entrance  announced ;  but 
no  Marquis  was  forthcoming.  Again  and  again  the  cue 
was  repeated,  with  sundry  glances  at  the  prompter ;  but 
no  Marquis  presented  himself.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
There  was  a  dead  pause  —  and  a  long  wait  —  and  the 
sound  of  voices  in  remonstrance  or  entreaty  proceeding 
from  behind  the  scenes  ;  but  still  no  Marquis  appeared. 
The  audience  began  to  evince  their  impatience  and  dis 
pleasure.  I  caught  sight  of  the  stage  manager  at  the 
wing,  earnestly  gesticulating,  and  apparently  in  a  great 
state  of  consternation.  As  I  approached  the  entrance, 
he  whispered  to  me,  "  What  on  earth  shall  we  do  ?  The 
poor  fellow  is  so  frightened  there's  no  forcing  him  on ! " 
A  happy  thought  struck  me,  and,  returning  to  my  posi 
tion  on  the  stage,  I  looked  in  the  direction  where  the 
Marquis  should  have  entered,  and  then  at  the  situation 
he  ought  to  have  occupied  on  the  stage,  and  continued 
my  part  by  saying,  "  Marquis,  who  should  be  standing 
there"  &c.,  &c.  The  audience  burst  forth  into  a  yell 
of  delighted  merriment  at  the  device.  I  continued  to 
address  the  invisible  Marquis,  making  his  answers 
(which  were  supposed  to  be  heard  by  my  ears  alone) 
known  to  them  by  my  interpretation.  Every  few 
words  excited  a  fresh  shout  of  laughter,  and  the  play 
concluded  as  brilliantly  as  though  our  absent  Marquis 
had  been  present  in  the  most  humorous  shape. 

On  the  last  night  of  my  engagement  a  rather  amus 
ing  scene  took  place  at  the  stage  door  of  the  theatre, 
where  the  carriage  was  waiting  to  take  me  home.  On 


SCENE   AT   THE    STAGE    DOOR.  361 

emerging  into  the  street,  we  found  such  a  crowd  assem 
bled  that  it  was  with  difficulty  that  the  gentlemen  who 
escorted  me  could  force  a  way  to  the  carriage.  This 
throng  had  gathered  to  witness  my  departure,  not  mere 
ly  because  I  had  become  a  favorite  in  Dublin,  but  be 
cause  I  was  an  American,  and  America  had  succored 
Ireland  in  her  hour  of  need.  They  grasped  my  hands 
as  I  passed,  seized  my  dress,  crying  out,  "  God  bless 
you,  mee  lady  ! "  "  The  Lord  give  you  prosperity ! " 
"  America  !  America's  the  blessed  land  ! "  There  were 
a  number  of  women  in  the  crowd,  some  of  them  with 
infants  in  their  arms.  These  pressed  upon  me,  crying 
out,  "  Look  at  the  baby,  mee  lady !  Take  a  look  at  mee 
baby!"  and,  "Let  the  little  girl  kiss  your  hand/'  &c. 
I  was  forced  to  stand  some  minutes  in  the  street,  com 
plying  as  well  as  I  could  with  their  requests.  They 
hemmed  me  in  so  closely,  that  to  reach  the  carriage 
was  an  impossibility ;  and  the  gentleman  whose  arm 
I  held  lifted  his  cane  to  strike  some  of  the  poor 
creatures.  But  they  drew  back  at  my  request,  though 
they  did  not  seem  inclined  to  do  so  before  the  threat 
ened  blows.  After  I  was  seated  in  the  carriage,  we 
discovered  that  Mrs.  Renshaw  had  been  lost  in  the 
crowd.  She  was  not  recognized  as  my  attendant,  and 
consequently  got  separated  from  me,  to  her  great  dis 
may.  She  was  unmercifully  jostled  about,  and  nearly 
trampled  under  foot.  One  of  the  gentlemen  who  ac 
companied  me  went  in  search  of  her.  She  was  found 
with  some  difficulty ;  and  even  then  it  was  only  by  pro 
claiming  who  she  was  that  he  could  induce  the  crowd  to 
make  way  and  let  her  pass.  We  drove  off  amidst  cheers 
and  shouts  of  "  God  bless  you  ! "  "  Long  life  to  you ! " 
which  never  ceased  while  the  carriage  was  in  sight. 


362       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

I  received  several  complimentary  letters  and  other 
tokens  of  esteem  during  my  stay  in  Dublin,  and  I 
formed  sonic  delightful  acquaintances.  I  am  their 
debtor  for  numerous  hospitalities  and  courtesies. 

Every  morning's  mail  brought  me  a  note  from  the 
invalid  in  London.  Very  often  I  had  a  second  note  in 
the  evening.  Every  mail  took  back  a  note  to  him,  with 
a  supply  of  newspapers.  He  had  wonderfully  revived, 
and  wrote  in  excellent  spirits.  The  accounts  of  my 
Dublin  successes  cheered  him;  and  he  derived  great 
amusement  from  sketches  of  the  individuals  with  whom 
I  became  acquainted  and  the  narration  of  various  inci 
dents.  I  quote  a  few  passages  from  his  daily  letters  to 
show  the  happy  and  thankful  spirit  in  which  they  were 
penned: — 

"  Your  letter  rejoiced  my  heart  and  filled  me  with 
gratitude  to  Heaven  —  all  seems  so  prosperous.  I,  too, 
am  unusually  well  and  strong  to-day." 

"  How  much  you  seem  to  be  favored  by  the  press, 
and  by  having  your  exertions  appreciated  and  re 
warded  !  Heaven  surely  favors  you,  and  me  through 
you." 

"  I  am  so  comfortable  this  morning  after  a  good 
night's  sleep,  and  the  cheerful  sun  shining  so  brightly  in 
the  room,  and  your  sweet  water  lily  hanging  over  me, 
and  the  portrait  of  your  dear  self  on  the  other  side  of 
the  painting  of  St.  John  ! " 

"  I  know  that  it  will  make  you  happy  to  learn  that, 
for  the  fi  jt  time  since  you  left  me,  I  have  been  able  to 
sit  up  and  read ;  which  I  have  just  now  been  doing,  to 
my  infinite  delight,  for  an  hour  and  a  half.  Providence 

be  thanked  for  all  its  mercies  !      This  is  more  than  I 

/ 

expected  would  happen  for  some  weeks." 


NOTES    FROM    THE   INVALID.  363 

f'Last  night  was  the  best  yet.  I  am  lying  upon 
your  sofa,  having  been  placed  there  by  a  nephew  of 
Mr.  M ll's,  who  is  very  kind,  and  an  excellent  sub 
stitute  for  our  good  Charlie." 

"  Davenport  brought  me  a  beautiful  pot  of  lilies  of 
the  valley,  in  full»bloom,  this  morning.  Your  letter  of 
Sunday  was  a  great  source  of  pleasure  and  delight  to 
me,  so  that  I  am  as  comfortable  as  can  be  to-day." 

"  I  look  forward  to  many  an  hour's  amusement  upon 
your  return,  from  the  various  scenes  and  events  that 
have  happened  to  you.  My  good  doctor  is  all  attention 
to  me,  and  watches  me  with  the  greatest  care.  Mrs. 

E n  is  delighted  that  her  sister  Mrs.  II suits 

you  so  well." 

The  contented  tone  of  these  letters,  and  the  favorable 
change  which  my  London  friends  assured  me  had  taken 
place,  once  more  cheated  me  into  the  belief  that  his  re 
covery  was  possible  —  I  even  dared  to  believe  probable. 
In  his  latter  letters  he  entreated  me  to  accept  an  offer 
which  I  had  received  to  act  a  fortnight  at  Newcastle 
upon  Tyne,  and  then  to  visit  Scotland.  I  unwillingly 
consented  to  the  former  request ;  and  my  faithful  attend 
ant  and  I  left  Dublin  with  our  faces  turned  towards 
Newcastle,  instead  of  to  London,  as  I  earnestly  desired. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


Recrossing  the  Channel.  —  Night  on  Deck.  —  Arrival  at  Liverpool. 
—  Carlisle.  —  Newcastle  upon  Tyne.  —  Mail  Disappointments.  — 
First  Rehearsal.  —  Its  Interruption.  —  The  three  Letters.  —  Sad 
Announcement  of  the  Third. — Mr.  Davis.  —  Sudden  Return  to 
London. —  The  Death  Bed. — Last  Hours.— A  Dying  Look. — 
The  peaceful  passing  aicay.  —  Hospitalities.  —  A  Flower- decked 
Grave.  —  Floral  Offerings  of  Friends.  —  Farewell  Letters.  —  Last 
Wishes.  —  The  last  Adieu.  —  Provincial  Tour.  —  Memoir  by  Bayle 
Bernard.  —  Return  to  America. 


IT  so  chanced  that  we  recrossed  the  channel  in  the 
Iron  Duke,  which  three  weeks  before  had  conveyed  us 
to  Kingston.  It  was  a  glorious  moonlight  evening,  and 
the  boat  seemed  to  plough  its  way  over  a  sea  of  molten 
silver.  We  spent  the  greater  portion  of  the  night  on 
deck.  A  long,  wooden  bench,  which  bore  some  rela 
tionship  to  that  plank  which  had  "  a  soft  side,"  served 
for  a  couch.  An  old  gentleman  who  was  pacing  the 
deck,  after  passing  us  once  or  twice,  deprived  himself 
of  his  voluminous  woollen  cloak,  and  spread  it  over  me. 
I  looked  up  to  remonstrate,  but  the  attempt  was  useless ; 
something  in  his  action  seemed  to  say  that  he  had  a 
daughter  at  home.  When  I  woke  from  a  dreamy  slum 
ber  I  found  a  couple  of  overcoats  folded  carefully  over 

my  feet,  and  Mrs.  R was  similarly  protected.    We 

could  only  divine  whence  they  came  by  singling  out 
certain  shivering  figures  that  walked  rapidly  to  and  fro 
in  the  moonlight  minus  the  comfortable  outer  garment. 

(364) 


MAIL    DISAPPOINTMENTS.  365 

Towards  morning  the  cold  became  so  intense  that  we 
were  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  the  close  cabin,  and  en 
counter  the  seasick  consequences.  We  landed  at  Liv 
erpool  soon  after  daylight,  and  in  about  an  hour,  during 
which  I  wrote  to  London,  took  the  train  for  Carlisle. 
At  four  o'clock  we  reached  Carlisle,  remained  half  an 
hour,  then  proceeded  to  Newcastle,  where  we  arrived  at 
eight  on  Friday  evening.  That  night  we  passed  at  a 
hotel,  and  early  the  next  morning  went  in  search  of 
apartments.  To  our  wonder  and  gratification,  they  were 
found  almost  as  readily  as  those  in  Dublin,  and  again 
seemed  mysteriously  prepared  for  our  reception  through 
the  agency  of  the  invisible  avant  courrier  before  men 
tioned.  * 

Our  first  care  was  to  send  to  the  theatre  for  letters. 
There  was  one  from  the  invalid  at  home,  dated  Thurs 
day  morning  and  Thursday  night.  It  was  written  in 
the  same  placid  and  hopeful  strain  as  all  the  others 
which  had  cheered  me  during  my  absence.  I  noticed 
but  one  difference ;  the  writing  was  singularly  uneven, 
and  on  some  lines  there  were  but  two  words,  as  though 
they  were  traced  by  one  who  did  not  see,  but  only 
guessed  at  the  space.  This  had,  doubtless,  been  the 
case.  Nothing  in  the  tone  of  the  letter  betrayed  a 
feebler  state  of  body  than  usual. 

On  Saturday  there  was  no  letter.  It  was  the  first 
day  since  I  left  London  that  had  brought  no  tones  from 
the  voice  at  a  distance.  Anxious  pulses  began  to  beat. 
Their  throbbing  was  painfully  quickened  when  Sunday 
came  and  went  and  brought  no  news.  Monday  morn 
ing  I  sent  to  the  post  office.  The  mail  had  not  yet  arrived 
—  it  was  very  late  that  day ;  and  we  learned  that  the 
mail  due  on  the  day  previous  had  missed  altogether. 


366       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

This  accounted  for  my  having  no  letters.  I  should 
certainly  have  two  that  day. 

With  renewed  hope  I  went  to  my  first  rehearsal  in 
that  strange,  cold5  vast  theatre  —  one  of  the  largest  in 
England.  Mrs.  Benshaw  accompanied  me.  As  we 
were  passing  the  box  office,  on  our  way  behind  the 
scenes,  the  doorkeeper,  seeing  strange  faces,  inquired, 
"  Is  that  Mrs.  Mowatt  ?  "  On  receiving  my  answer,  he 
replied,  "  I  have  a  great  pile  of  letters  for  you,  ma'am ; 
there  are  several  back  mails  this  morning ; "  and  placed 
a  large  package  of  epistles  in  my  eagerly-extended 
hands. 

Very  hurriedly  I  glanced  over  them  to  select  the 
well-known  writing.  It  was  not  therfc.  Again  I  looked 
through  the  gathering  mists  that  clouded  my  sight; 
there  were  many  familiar  hands,  but  one  was  missing. 
A  note,  in  Mr.  Davenport's  writing,  attracted  my  atten 
tion  ;  that  must  give  me  information.  I  broke  it  open, 
and  turned  to  the  last  lines  before  I  had  courage  to 
glance  at' the  first.  They  reassured  me  —  the  letter 
was  dated  Friday,  and  had  probably  been  posted  too 
late  for  that  day's  mail.  He  was  paying  Mr.  Mowatt  a 
visit,  and  wrote  in  his  stead.  The  latter  seemed  some 
what  weaker  than  usual,  too  weak  to  manage  a  pen  — 
and,  besides,  he  appeared  inclined  to  sleep. 

As  I  looked  up  from  the  letter,  I  perceived  that  the 
manager,  Mr.  Davis,  was  waiting  to  address  me.  Sev 
eral  of  the  company  had  assembled  without  my  noticing 
them,  and  were  scanning  the  stranger  with  inquisitive 
eyes.  After  exchanging  a  few  words  with  Mr.  Davis, 
whom  I  had  seen  but  twice  before,  I  inquired  if  I  were 
delaying  rehearsal. 

"  It  is  past  the  hour,"  he  replied,  "  and  every  body  is 


THE    THREE    LETTERS.  367 

here ;  but  if  you  wish  to  read  your  letters "  I 

interrupted  him  with,  "  I  have  read  the  only  important 
one,  and  will  not  detain  you." 

He  was  leading  the  way  to  the  stage,  and  I  following. 
The  package  of  letters  seemed  to  burn  my  hands,  and  I 
glanced  over  them  again.  My  eye  caught  sight  of 
another  note  in  Mr.  Davenport's  writing,  and  above  the 
address  the  startling  word,  "  immediate."  I  paused,  too 
much  alarmed  to  apologize  to  my  conductor,  and  hastily 
tore  open  the  letter.  It  was  dated  Saturday,  and,  after 
a  gentle  preparation,  intimated  that  he  feared  Mr.  Mow- 

att  was  worse.  Mr.  D ,  with  other  friends,  had 

passed  the  day  at  his  bedside  —  he  did  not  appear  to 
suffer,  but  was  very  feeble.  There  was  a  P.  S.,  dated 
4  o'clock,  stating  that  no  change  had  taken  place  up  to 
that  hour.  The  writer's  duties  at  the  theatre,  he  said, 
would  force  him  to  leave  at  six. 

I  was  folding  the  letter  as  composedly  as  I  could, 
when  I  noticed  a  third  letter  in  the  same  hand ;  and  upon 
that,  too,  was  the  terrible  word,  "  immediate."  I  opened 
it  —  the  date  was  Sunday  morning.  It  was  strange  that 
I  should  have  opened  them  accidentally  in  the  order  of 
their  dates.  The  first  lines  were  all  I  read  —  they  had 
told  me  the  worst.  The  voice  of  consoling  angels  whis 
pered,  "  God  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead,  but  of  the  living ; 
for  all  live  unto  him ! " 

I  hardly  know  what  took  place ;  but  I  remember  the 
gentle  ministerings  of  the  considerate  manager  and  of 
my  weeping  attendant.  As  soon  as  I  was  able,  we 
returned  to  our  lodgings. 

My  package  of  epistles  contained  numerous  letters 
of  condolence,  and  several  most  pressing  invitations 
from  intimate  friends,  offering  the  hospitalities  of  their 


368      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

roofs.  I  accepted  that  of  the  friend  who  had  been  the 
most  tried  — •  the  most  devoted  to  him  who  was  gone  — 
a  friend  whose  wife,  daughters,  son,  and  nephew,  as  well 
as  himself,  had  each  in  turn  watched  over  and  cheered 
the  departing  spirit  through  its  long  but  gentle  struggles 
to  be  disinthralled. 

Mr.  Davis  wrote  to  him,  and  made  all  arrangements 
for  my  return  to  London.  We  started  at  six  o'clock 
the  next  morning.  The  attentive  manager  took  charge 
of  us  to  the  station,  provided  for  our  comfort  on  the 
road,  and  performed  every  office  that  the  kindest  of 
hearts  could  dictate. 

"We  arrived  in  London  late  in  the  evening,  after  a 
journey  the  sadness  of  which  I  need  not  describe.  For 
the  next  few  weeks  I  took  up  my  residence  with  friends 
now  doubly  endeared. 

From  the  faithful  nurse,  Mrs.  E n,  I  received  a 

minute  account  of  the  last  days  and  last  hours  which  I 
had  not  been  permitted  to  witness. 

On  Thursday  night  the  then  sinking  invalid  wrote  to 
me  for  the  last  time.  On  Friday  he  was  unusually  fee 
ble,  but  composed  as  ever.  Mr.  Davenport  passed  the 
day  with  him,  and  he  gave  various  directions  with  his 
habitual  clearness  and  precision.  On  Saturday  morning 
he  seemed  slightly  worse,  and  inquired,  with  considerable 
anxiety,  if  the  postman  had  not  made  his  rounds.  A  lit 
tle  before  ten  o'clock  the  daily  missive  was  placed  in 
his  hands.  It  was  written  at  Liverpool  during  the  hour 
that  we  stopped  on  our  way  to  Newcastle.  He  opened 
the  note,  and  held  it  a  long  time  before  his  eyes  without 
turning  the  page ;  he  appeared  unable  to  see  the  words. 

After  a  while  he  looked  up  at  Mrs.  E n,  who  was 

standing  beside  him,  and,  holding  out  the  note,  said,  in 


THE    DEATH    BED.  369 

a  faint  voice,  "  Read  me  Lily's  letter !  "  They  were 
the  last  words  he  ever  spoke. 

She  took  the  letter  and  read.  "When  she  had  finished 
she  looked  at  him ;  his  face,  she  says,  had  strangely 
changed;  it  was  white  as  marble,  and  quite  rigid. 
She  spoke  to  him,  but  he  did  not  answer  ;  she  bent  her 
head,  and  felt  his  breath  upon  her  cheek.  Then  she 
thought  he  was  sleeping.  She  sat  beside  him  to  watch  ; 
but  the  strange  expression,  the  "  death  look  in  his  face," 
as  she  termed  it,  terrified  her ;  and  she  sent  a  messenger 

for  Mr.  Davenport,  and  another  for  Mr.  M 11,  the 

friend  whom  I  mentioned  above.  They  came,  the  lat 
ter  with  his  wife  and  daughter.  Mr.  M 11  tried  to 

rouse  the  slumberer,  and,  fancying  that  he  had  partly 
succeeded,  took  the  open  letter  that  lay  beside  him  and 
read  it  aloud,  to  attract  his  attention ;  but  the  heavy  eyes 
closed  again,  and  gave  no  sign  of  intelligence.  Mr. 
Davenport  brought  the  doctor ;  he  examined  his  patient, 
and  told  the  assembled  friends  that  the  parting  hour  was 
at  hand.  Then  they  gathered  silently  and  solemnly 
around  the  bed,  and  waited  for  the  angels  of  death  to 
free  the  ransomed  spirit.  Another  friend  joined  them, 
and  sat  with  the  hand  of  the  dying  clasped  in  hers.  He 
never  spoke  and  never  moved  until  just  before  sunset. 
Then  suddenly  he  opened  his  eyes ;  they  rested  for  a 
moment  upon  the  portrait  which  he  had  ordered  to  be 
hung  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and  at  the  pot  of  lilies,  in  full 
bloom,  standing  beneath  it ;  a  smile  full  of  angelic  radi 
ance  for  an  instant  played  upon  his  lips ;  his  eyes  closed 
again,  and  almost  immediately  opened,  fixed,  glazed, 
expressionless  ;  the  mortal  casket  was  untreasured  ;  he 
was  no  longer  there. 

"  His  spirit  passed  away  sweetly  and  gently,  like  the 
24 


370      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

slumbering  of  an  infant ;  the  change  was  scarcely  per 
ceptible  to  those  around."  So  wrote  one  of  the  friends 
who  witnessed  his  release,  adding,  "  I  have  beheld  his 
mortal  remains  placed  in  the  coffin;  and  his  counte 
nance  is  so  placid,  looking  as  I  have  seen  him  often  in 
his  sleep  in  latter  days." 

In  one  of  the  loveliest  corners  of  Kensall  Green 
Cemetery,  where  bending  trees  wave  their  green  canopy 
over  his  grave,  and  a  richly-broidered  mantle  of  flowers 
covers  the  earth,  lie  his  mortal  remains.  No  flattering 
falsehood  is  graven  upon  his  tombstone,  but  a  simple 
epitaph,  ending  with  the  inspired  words  which  so  dis 
tinctly  apply  to  such  as  he :  "  Blessed  is  that  servant 
whom  his  Lord,  when  he  cometh,  finds  watching !  " 

Other  hands  besides  my  own  have  hung  wreaths 
upon  that  tombstone,  and  laid  choice  bouquets  upon 
that  flower-covered  grave,  in  token  of  remembrance. 
The  latest  offering  was  a  basket  of  moss,  filled  with 
immortelles  of  various  hues ;  and  on  the  handle  was 
woven,  in  white  flowers,  the  last  name  that  was  uttered 
by  his  lips. 

In  a  previous  chapter  I  spoke  of  a  trunk  which  he 
pointed  out  to  me  as  containing  letters.  I  found  three, 
enclosed  in  each  other,  and  addressed  to  me.  The  first 
related  entirely  to  business  subjects.  It  carefully  ex 
plained  matters  which  my  absence  of  business  knowl 
edge  would  have  rendered  difficult  of  comprehension. 

The  second  contained  various  wishes,  with  which  he 
urged  my  compliance.  One  was,  that  I  would  resume 
my  profession,  and  resist  the  entreaties  of  relatives  or 
friends  to  abandon  the  stage  until  certain  objects  were 
accomplished.  Another  entreaty  was,  that,  should  he 
die  during  the  winter  season,  I  would  not  leave  Eng- 


THE    LAST   ADIEU.  371 

land  until  the  ensuing  summer,  as  the  change  of  climate 
would  inevitably  prove  injurious  to  my  health.  Other 
wishes  referred  to  the  care  and  education  of  the  little 
Greys,  now  wholly  left  under  my  charge.  Other  re 
quests  are  not  of  a  nature  to  be  mentioned  here  ;  every 
one  was  dictated  with  a  view  to  promote  my  welfare. 
If  any  desire  has  remained  uncomplied  with,  it  is  be 
cause  the  fulfilment  was  not  possible. 

The  third  letter  was  a  farewell,  written  with  deep 
emotion ;  the  outpouring  of  a  loving  and  exalted  spirit ; 
a  letter  full  of  thankfulness,  full  of  tenderness  ;  grate 
fully  reviewing  the  past,  and  assuring  me  of  his  prepa 
ration  fo  j  the  future.  The  rocks  of  doubt,  upon  which  he 
had  once  been  stranded,  had  melted  in  the  broad  and  liv 
ing  waters  of  Truth,  whose  waves  dance  upon  the  shores 
of  a  glorious  eternity.  That  farewell  letter  belongs,  per 
haps,  to  these  memoirs,  which  are  written  at  his  request. 
I  have  read  the  valued  document  again  and  again  be 
fore  I  could  come  to  a  decision  on  this  point.  Although 
I  have  allowed  it  to  be  perused  by  many  friends,  I  feel 
its  language  too  sacred  to  be  recorded  where  cold  and 
worldly  eyes  have  the  right  to  read.  I  may  be  wrong 
in  this  conclusion;  but  I  yield  to  an  instinct  which  I 
have  not  strength  to  overcome. 

I  passed  six  weeks  at  the  residences  of  various  friends, 
and  then  prepared  to  resume  my  profession.  Compli 
ance  with  Mr.  Mowatt's  last  wishes  compelled  me  to 
remain  in  England  until  summer  commenced.  London 
was  now  full  of  distressing  associations;  I  therefore 
made  engagements  for  a  tour  in  the  provinces,  to  oc 
cupy  the  months  which  must  pass  before  I  could  return 
to  my  own  country,  my  own  family.  I  travelled 
from  city  to  city,  accompanied  only  by  Mrs.  Renshaw, 


372      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

remaining  a  few  weeks  in  each  town,  and  acting  every 
night ;  if  that  could  be  called  acting  which  was  but  a 
soulless  imitation  of  my  former  stage  imbodiments.  I 
could  only  coldly  copy  what  I  had  done  spontaneously 
in  more  inspired  moments.  I  lost,  for  the  time  being, 
all  power  of  original  personation. 

"We  visited  Newcastle,  Leeds,  Hull,  Sheffield,  Man 
chester,  Liverpool.  The  gentlemanlike  conduct  of  Mr, 
Davis  caused  me  to  return  to  Newcastle  and  fulfil  the 
engagement  which  had  been  so  painfully  broken  in 
upon.  I  would  gladly  have  avoided  that  city;  but  I 
felt  bound  to  secure  him  against  loss.  Newcastle  was, 
consequently,  the  first  town  in  which  I  reappeared. 

In  Manchester  I  acted  in  the  very  theatre  where  I 
had  made  my  first  English  debut  —  but  under  what 
different  circumstances!  As  I  sat  alone  at  the  man 
ager's  table,  through  the  long  dreary  rehearsals,  the  in 
cidents  of  the  past  four  ye£rs,  many  and  many  a  time, 
passed  in  visionary  review  before  me. 

My  intercourse  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Smithson  and  his 
wife  was  renewed.  Highly  prized  their  friendship 
had  been  years  before ;  but  it  was  at  this  period  an 
inestimable  boon. 

During  my  engagement  in  Liverpool  I  was  supported 
by  Mr.  Barry  Sullivan,  one  of  the  most  gifted  perform 
ers  on  the  English  stage.  Armand  was  produced  in 
every  city,  and  always  with  success.  In  Liverpool  Mr. 
Davenport  enacted  his  original  part  on  my  benefit  night. 
The  managers  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre  accorded  him 
this  privilege  for  one  evening  only.  He  arrived  in  Liv 
erpool  —  where  he  is  a  great  favorite  —  in  time  for  the 
performance,  and  left  the  next  morning  to  act  in  Lon 
don  at  night. 


MEMOIR  BY  BATLE  BERNARD.         373 

It  is  somewhat  strange,  that,  in  spite  of  the  sad  events 
related  in  this  and  the  several  previous  chapters,  I  left 
England  with  the  reputation  of  a  comic  rather  than  a 
tragic  actress ;  so  little  may  the  public  and  private  his 
tory  of  an  actor  be  in  accordance.  Just  before  my  de 
parture,  a  memoir  of  me  was  written  by  Bayle  Bernard, 
author  of  the  Broken  Heart,  the  Passing  Cloud,  &c.. 
which  concludes  with  the  following  paragraph  :  — 

•<  While  Mrs.  Mowatt  has  a  tenderness  and  pathos  that  render 
her  Imogen  and  Viola  scarcely  equalled  in  our  memory,  there  is  such 
an  entire  adaptation  of  her  whole  person,  look,  and  spirit  to  the 
blander  sphere  of  comedy,  that  ice  cannot  but  feel  it  is  her  true  one. 
It  is  marked  by  an  enjoyment  that  shows  at  once  it  is  most  natural 
to  her,  however  her  tears  and  gentleness  may  charm  us  to  the  con 
trary.  But  her  comedy  has  its  distinction  —  we  think  it  peculiarly 
X/iakspean'an,  owing  to  that  thrill  of  poetic  feeling  which  winds 
through  all  its  passages.  That  mixed  exposition  of  the  ideal  and 
the  true,  which  stamps  all  Shakspeare's  writings  as  the  profound- 
est  insight  into  man,  receives  the  happiest  illustration  in  the  genius 
of  Mrs.  Mowatt.  Sensibility  and  mirth  are  ever  neighbors  to  each 
other ;  and  our  fair  artist  well  interprets  what  our  best  poet  has  so 
well  divined.  In  the  comedy  of  modern  life  she  has  unquestionable 
merits ;  but  if  it  impress  us  the  less  forcibly,  it  is  on  account  of 
its  lower  grade,  which  limits  expression.  It  is  in  Beatrice  and  Rosa 
lind  that  she  must  be  witnessed  to  be  esteemed ;  equalled  by  some 
in  art,  and  surpassed  in  force  by  many,  she  alone  has  that  poetic 
fervor  which  imparts  to  them  their  truth,  and  makes  our  laughter 
ever  ready  to  tremble  into  tears." 

During  my  engagement  in  Liverpool  I  was  joined 

by  Mr.  S h,  a  valued  brother-in-law,  who  had  just 

arrived  from  America.  I  passed  a  few  weeks  in  Lon 
don,  bidding  adieu  to  cherished  friends,  and,  under  my 
brother-in-law's  protection,  set  sail  for  America,  accom 
panied  by  Mrs.  Renshaw.  We  embarked  on  the  9th 
July,  1851,  in  the  steamship  Pacific,  commanded  by 
Captain  Nye. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

Accident  on  board  of  the  Steamship  Pacific.  —  Midnight  Scene  in  the 
Cabin.  —  Arrival  in  New  York.  —  Adventurous  Night  Journey  to 
Eavenswood.  —  Rousing  the  Slumberers.  —  Meetings  in  the  dark.  — 
Our  second  Mother.  —  The  general  Home.  —  Reunion  of  the  ten 
Sisters. — A  Christening. — Engagement  at  Niblo's  Theatre.  —  Act 
ing  and  its  Necessities.  —  Anecdote  of  Mr.  Macready.  —  Mademoi 
selle  Mars.  — Conversation  with  Plancht,  the  Dramatist.  —  His  Ad 
vice.  —  Professor  Hows.  —  Dramatic  Studies.  —  Engagement  at 
Boston,  Providence,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Cincinnati,  and  St. 
Louis.  —  Letter  from  His  Honor  the  Mayor  of  St.  Louis,  J.  M. 
Kenneth.  —  Complimentary  Benefit  declined.  —  Proposed  Christ 
mas  Festivities  in  Philadelphia.  — A  Family  Gathering. 

OUB  voyage,  of  thirteen  days'  duration,  was  not  ac 
complished  entirely  without  accident.  About  two 
o'clock,  one  morning,  a  terrible  crash  suddenly  dispelled 
the  dreams  of  every  slumberer.  The  sound  was  three 
times  repeated,  and  the  ship  quivered  and  groaned  as 
though  her  timbers  were  being  rent  asunder.  Imme 
diately  afterwards  all  motion  ceased — she  had  been 
arrested  in  her  course.  Then  came  the  noise  of  hur 
rying  feet  and  indistinct  ejaculations  of  horror,  and  a 
general  rushing  of  the  ladies  into  the  cabin,  and  of  the 
gentlemen  to  the  deck.  Mrs.  Renshaw  opened  our 
state-room  door  to  inquire  what  had  happened.  A  ter 
rified  stewardess  answered,  as  she  flew  by,  "  0,  clear ! 
I  don't  know.  But  the  ladies  had  better  dress  —  I  am 
afraid  we  are  going  down  !  " 

Silently  and  rapidly  we  made  our  toilets  and  joined 

(374) 


MIDNIGHT    SCENE.  375 

the  group  in  the  cabin.  It  was  a  strange  sight  that 
crowd  of  bewildered  faces  just  startled  from  sleep,  and 
stranger  the  odd  toilets,  the  bonnets  hurried  on  over 
nightcaps,  the  half-dishevelled  hair,  the  not-to-be-de 
scribed  mingling  of  night  and  day  costumes.  In  spite 
of  the  white  terror  that  spread  itself  over  many  a  coun 
tenance,  every  lady  present  maintained  a  quiet  bearing ; 
while  some  of  the  braver  sex  (so  it  was  reported) 
rushing  frantically  to  the  deck,  attempted  to  cut  loose 
the  lifeboats,  in  the  hope  of  saving  themselves.  The 
captain  was  forced  to  station  several  of  the  crew  where 
they  could  prevent  this  act  of  madness. 

It  was  full  half  an  hour  before  intelligence  was 
brought  below  of  the  precise  nature  of  the  accident. 
During  this  period  the  steamer  lay  perfectly  still.  "We 
then  learned  that  in  backing  suddenly  from  a  danger 
ous  approach  to  certain  rocks,  upon  which  she  would 
inevitably  have  been  wrecked,  one  of  the  engines  had 
been  shivered  to  pieces.  Its  instantaneous  dismember 
ment  had  occasioned  the  convulsive  quivering  of  the 
vessel  and  the  thunder-like  reports.  There  was  no 
longer  any  danger.  The  larger  portion  of  the  passen 
gers  returned  quietly  to  their  berths.  Some  few  could 
not  recover  from  the  excitement,  and  remained  watch 
ing.  We  were  amongst  the  former.  After  a  few 
hours  the  Pacific  proceeded  on  her  course  with  but  one 
engine.  We  had  already  made  (if  I  remember  rightly) 
two  thirds  of  the  voyage. 

On  the  thirteenth  night,  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  we 
reached  New  York.  It  would  have  been  wise,  perhaps, 
to  have  remained  on  board  until  daylight;  but  my 
brother-in-law  and  I  could  not  make  up  our  minds  to 
the  delay.  We  were  too  impatient  to  behold  the  be- 


376      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

loved  ones  assembled  to  greet  us  beneath  our  father's 
roof.  How  to  make  the  journey  to  Ravenswood,  Long 
Island,  was  the  next  question.  We  had  six  miles  to 
travel  over  the  worst  kind  of  roads.  The  night  was 
dark,  but  for  a  few  faint  stars  that  now  glimmered,  now 
disappeared.  We  could  not  hope  to  reach  Ravenswood 
until  long  past  midnight,  —  my  father's  household  would 
then  have  retired  to  rest,  —  but  we  could  not  persuade 
ourselves  to  postpone  the  joyfully  anticipated  meeting 
until  morning.  A  coach  was  loaded  with  our  baggage, 
and  we  started.'  The  roads  were  newly  made ;  and 
every  few  moments  the  carriage  sank  down  into  a  deep 
rut,  or  rose  sidewise  over  a  high  mound  of  earth. 
After  several  narrow  approaches  to  an  upset,  we  alighted 
from  the  carriage,  and  walked,  ankle  deep  in  mud,  over 

the  worst  portions  of  the  road.  When  Mrs.  R 

and  I  resumed  our  seats,  my  brother-in-law  mounted 
the  box,  and  himself  took  the  reins  as  the  only  means 
of  guarding  us  from  the  perils  of  an  overturn. 

It  was  past  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  my 
ears  were  greeted  with  the  glad  sound,  issuing  from  the 
coach  box,  "  Look  out,  sister !  I  can  just  see  your  fath 
er's  house  behind  those  pine  trees." 

The  rumble  of  our  heavily-laden  carriage  broke 
loudly  upon  the  stillness  of  the  night  as  we  drove  up  to 
the  door.  No  other  sound  was  audible,  and  not  a  light 
visible  in  the  silent  house.  Those  within  had  evident 
ly  given  up  watching  for  us,  except  in  their  dreams.  I 
rang  the  bell  loudly,  and  my  brother-in-law  shouted  be 
neath  the  windows.  In  an  instant  an  answering  cry 
of  joy  echoed  from  within,  and  we  heard  the  pattering 
of  nude  feet,  and  the  sound  of  a  loved  voice,  that  called 
out,  "  Wake  up !  wake  up  !  They  have  come  ! "  The 


MEETINGS    IN   THE   DARK.  377 

key  turned  rapidly  in  the  lock  —  the  door  flew  open  — 
clasping  arms  were  about  me  —  and  a  heart  beat  strong 
ly  against  mine  —  in  the  dark  I  could  not  tell  whose  ; 
but  I  knew  it  was  that  of  a  sister.  "We  were  both  mute 
from  joy,  so  that  I  could  not  recognize  her  from  her 
voice.  Other  arms  received  me  as  hers  were  loosened ; 
and  I  could  only  say,  "  Who  is  it  ?  Is  it  Emmie  ?  Is  it 
May  ?  Is  it  you,  Jule  ?  "  My  brother-in-law  sought  for 
his  wife  in  the  dark,  and  accidentally  greeted  one  of  the 
sisters  in  her  place,  which  caused  great  merriment.  By 
some  accident  there  was  not  a  light  in  the  whole  house, 
and  in  the  confusion  no  matches  could  be  found.  For 
tunately  the  travelling  satchel  which  I  carried  on  my 
arm  contained  a  small  box  of  wax  tapers  used  for  seal 
ing  letters.  With  these  we  struck  a  light,  and  made 
visible  the  group  of  white-robed  figures  that  now  con 
ducted  me  to  our  father's  chamber.  He  had  been 
roused  by  the  unexpected  uproar,  and  began  to  divine 
its  meaning.  There  was  joy  enough  in  that  meeting  to 
make  amends  for  all  past  sorrows.  From  that  hour  the 
"  shadows,  and  eclipses,  and  dark  tides  "  began  to  roll 
from  my  spirit. 

After  the  first  greeting,  —  the  first  hurried  ques 
tions  and  answers,  —  sisters,  who  had  become  mothers 
during  my  absence,  lifted  rosy  slumberers  from  their 
cribs  and  trundle  beds  to  exhibit  them  with  fond  pride. 
And  my  father  bade  me  look  at  the  two  little  sisters 
born  after  I  left  —  specimens  of  infantine  loveliness 
which  it  would  have  been  difficult  not  to  admire. 

I  have  not  before  mentioned  that  two  years  after  we 

lost  our  mother  (which  sad  event  took  place  when  I  was 

sixteen)  our  father  was  united  to  Miss  Julia  Fairlie,  of 

New  York,  daughter  of  Major  James  Fairlie,  a  distin- 

32* 


378       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

guished  officer  of  the  revolutionary  army.  Such  a 
striking  contradiction  was  given  to  the  old  maxim  that 
condemns  step-mothers  in  the  person  of  our  second 
mother,  that  her  harmonious  life  ought  almost  to  take 
away  the  reproach  that  attaches  itself  to  that  much- 
maligned  class.  The  loadstar  of  her  gentleness  had 
attracted  to  itself  the  affections  of  all  her  husband's 
children  —  all  their  hearts 

"  Perforce 

Swayed  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved 
And  girdled  her  " 

with  love.  She  contributed  four  most  sweet  additions 
to  our  already  extensive  sisterhood.  At  the  period  of 
my  return,  the  youngest,  our  "last  rose  of  summer," 
as  we  nicknamed  her,  was  little  more  than  a  yea*  old ; 
the  next  in  age  was  three  years. 

There  was  very  little  sleep  in  my  father's  house  that 
night ;  but  there  was  a  great  deal  of  what  was  better 
and  more  refreshing,  even  to  the  wornout  travellers. 

Though  we  used  to  say  that  the  paternal  mansion  had 
the  India  rubber  capacity  of  the  paternal  heart,  expand 
ing  to  give  each  new  comer  a  welcome  place,  my  father's 
house  could  not  quite  accommodate  all  his  numerous 
children  and  the  shoots  from  their  branches.  One  sis 
ter  was  obliged  to  sleep  at  a  hotel  near.  She  had  not 
heard  of  our  arrival.  Early  the  next  morning  my 
sisters  and  I  went  to  see  her.  Since  we  parted  she  had 
worn  bridal  flowers  and  clasped  an  infant  to  her  heart. 
When  we  approached  her  lodgings  she  was  just  leaving 
the  house  with  her  bright-eyed  baby  in  her  arms.  As 
I  ran  towards  her,  in  advance  of  the  others,  she  did  not 
recognize  me,  but  started  when  I  spoke,  exclaiming, 


THE    TEN    SISTERS.  379 

"  Anna !  It  isn't  possible !  I  was  wondering  what 
strange  lady  the  girls  had  brought  with  them." 

I  was  no  longer  the  pallid,  fragile,  sickly-looking 
being  whom  she  had  last  embraced.  The  healthful 
change  wrought  by  the  English  climate  was  like  a 
metamoiphosis. 

We  now  lacked  but  one  sister,  our  eldest,  to  make 
our  band  complete.  She  came  from  New  York  with 
her  two  Cornelia  treasures  —  riches  bestowed  since  I 
last  beheld  her.  Was  it  the  couleur-de-rose  hue  of 
excitement  and  joy  through  which  I  gazed  that  made 
me  imagine,  when  the  little  flock  were  grouped  together 
in  the  drawing  room,  I  had  never  beheld  such  an  assem 
blage  of  beautiful  infant  faces  ? 

It  was  five  years  since  the  sisters  had  all  been 
gathered  from  their  scattered  homes  in  the  general 
home  —  for  all  who  had  reached  womanhood  had  also 
entered  wifehood.  We  sat  down  at  my  father's  table, 
ten  daughters  and  two  sons  —  two  were  at  a  distance. 
Two  of  either  sex  were  in  the  spirit  land.  The  chris 
tening  of  the  little  Florence  and  Virginia,  our  youngest 
sisters,  took  place  shortly  after  my  arrival.  And  my 
father,  when  he  walked  into  the  village  church  at 
Ravenswood,  wrhere  the  ceremony  was  performed,  was 
followed  by  twenty-two  of  his  own  descendants. 

I  only  left  New  York  for  a  brief  visit  to  Greenfield 
Hill,  to  see  my  young  charges,  the  little  Greys.  I 
found  them  fulfilling  my  hopes  and  exceeding  my 
expectations. 

On  the  19th  of  August,  1851,  I  commenced  my  pro 
fessional  engagements  at  Niblo's  Theatre.  The  audi 
ence  at  Niblo's  is,  in  a  measure,  composed  of  that  portion 
of  the  community  who  are  lovers  of  the  drama,  yet  do 


380      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

not  frequent  theatres  —  I  should  say  theatres  where 
certain  abuses  are  countenanced.  It  is  an  audience 
distinguished  for  purity  of  taste,  though  not  versed  in 
conventional  criticism.  There  is  no  craving  after  un 
natural  excitement  —  nothing  blase  about  them  —  but  a 
freshness  and  enthusiasm,  and  a  keen  sense  of  enjoy 
ment,  to  which  it  is  a  delight  to  minister.  The  theatre 
itself  was  built  during  my  absence,  and  is  a  very  mag 
nificent  one. 

The  theatre-going  public  are  too  familiar  with  the 
circumstances  which  attended  my  debut  after  my  long 
sojourn  in  a  foreign  land  for  me  to  dwell  upon  the 
hearty  welcome  bestowed  by  my  countrymen,  the 
thronged  houses  with  which  they  honored  me  through 
the  whole  of  my  engagement,  and  the  overflowing  bene 
fit  with  which  it  concluded. 

At  this  period  I  fixed  a  time  in  my  own  mind  when 
I  would  retire  from  the  profession.  But  until  that 
epoch  arrived,  I  determined,  by  close  application  to  the 
study  of  my  art,  to  win  the  highest  distinction  to  which 
my  abilities,  in  their  full  cultivation,  would  entitle  me. 
^  /  Acting  is  not  a  matter  of  mere  intuition.  The 
power  of  conception  comes  long,  long  before  the  fac 
ulty  of  executing  with  thorough  success  —  a  success 
which  satisfies  the  true  artist  himself,  and  is  not  meas 
ured  by  the  amount  of  applause  he  wins  —  applause 
which  may  be  dealt  out  by  judicious  or  injudicious 
hands  —  which  may  oftener  be  called  down  by  "  a  trick 
of  the  stage"  than  by  a  delicately  beautiful  concep 
tion. 

/  The  young  actor  who  supposes  that,  alone  and  un- 
guided  by  the  maturer  judgment  of  one  who  can  show 
him  to  himself  by  reflection  as  in  a  glass,  —  as  "  others 


ACTING   AND    ITS    NECESSITIES.  381 

see  him,"  and  as  no  man  sees  h.s  own  image,  —  he  can 
arrive  at  the  highest  degree  of  excellence,  commits  a 
great  error.  The  art  of  interpreting  "  the  mighty  mas 
ters  "  correctly,  and  imbodying  their  conceptions  forcibly, 
faithfully,  and  brilliantly,  is  the  study  of  a  life  —  ever 
progressive,  and  demanding  as  devoted  application  as 
the  study  of  sculpture,  painting,  music,  or  any  of  the 
most  difficult  arts. 

It  is  related  of  Mr.  Macready,  that,  after  enacting 
Hamlet  hundreds  of  times,  he  refused  to  attend  a  dinner 
party,  composed  of  the  friends  whom  he  most  delighted 
to  meet,  because  the  role  of  the  Dane  required  more 
study,  new  reflections,  fresh  analysis.  The  studies  of 
Mrs.  Siddons  never  ceased.  It  is  narrated  of  Made 
moiselle  Mars,  that  when  a  friend  commented  upon  her 
admirable  personation  of  Juliet  at  sixty,  she  replied, 
"  Si  favais  ma  jeunesse,je  riaurais  pas  mon  talent" 
Through  studies  not  relinquished  at  sixty  years  of  age 
she  had  attained  her  dramatic  perfection. 

Before  I  left  England,  a  conversation  with  Mr. 
Planche,  the  distinguished  playwright,  first  impressed 
upon  my  mind  the  importance,  to  the  dramatic  artist, 
of  incessant  application.  He  took  a  friendly  interest 
in  my  successes.  His  words  were,  "  You  must  not  think 
that  because  you  have  made  this  London  hit,  and  have 
reached  your  present  position  in  so  wonderfully  short  a 
time,  that  you  have  nothing  more  to  learn.  You  will 
not  abandon  your  studies  ?  You  are  not  vain  enough 
to  suppose  that  you  would  not  be  benefited  by  reading 
daily  with  some  old  actor  who  has  made  the  stage  the 
study  of  years,  and  has  discovered  how  difficult  it  is  to 
convey  to  an  audience  that  which  it  is  easy  to  conceive 
in  the  closet?" 


382      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

I  answered  what  I  thought ;  and  the  answer  pleased 
him.  He  counselled  me  to  read  with  a  celebrated 
English  elocutionist,  who  had  once  been  an  actor,  to 
compare  opinions  with  him,  especially  as  regarded 
Shakspearian  characters,  and  then  to  form  my  own  per 
sonations  neither  on  his  nor  any  model.  I  forget  this 
gentleman's  name.  It  was  one  with  which  I  was  not 
familiar.  I  attempted  to  follow  Mr.  Planche's  advice ; 
but  the  elocutionist  whom  he  recommended  chanced  to 
be  seriously  ill.  Mr.  Planche  then  suggested  my  read 
ing  with  Miss  Kelly,  who  had  retired  from  the  stage. 
I  was  on  the  eve  of  entering  into  an  engagement  with 
this  eminent  lady  when  my  own  indisposition  prevented. 

I  mentally  stored  up  Mr.  Planche's  remarks,  and 
determined  to  act  upon  his  advice  whenever  occasion 
offered ;  for  I  deeply  felt  my  own  responsibilities  as  an 
artist.  I  left  England,  however,  without  carrying  my 
intentions  into  execution.  On  my  return  to  America, 
while  pondering  over  the  counsels  I  had  received  from 
so  high  a  source,  I  remembered  my  former  friend,  Pro 
fessor  Hows,  of  Columbia  College.  Of  his  critical 
acumen,  his  elocutionary  powers,  his  talents  for  analyz 
ing  dramatic  creations,  there  could  be  no  question.  He 
had  made  the  imbodiment  of  language  —  the  uttering 
of  words  so  as  to  make  them  express  their  meaning  by 
the  very  tone  used  —  the  study  of  a  long  life.  His 
first  impressions  of  acting  were  received  from  the  unap 
proachable  Siddons,  the  finished  and  classic  Kenible, 
the  matchless  O'Neil,  the  elder  Kean,  and  the  host  of 
actors  of  the  old  school,  their  contemporaries,  besides 
their  whole  galaxy  of  gifted  successors.  Such  a  man 
had  surely  been  educated  in  a  school  of  experiences 
that  gave  his  opinions  and  judgment  high  claim  to  re- 


PROFESSOR   HOWS.  383 

spect.  I  knew  also  that  he  possessed  a  peculiar  faculty 
of  transmitting  his  knowledge;  and  this  is,  of  itself, 
an  especial  talent. 

Before  I  was  half  through  my  engagement  at  Niblo's, 
I  arranged  to  read  and  discuss  my  favorite  dramatic 
personations  with  Professor  Hows  regularly  every  day. 
I  derived  equal  benefit  and  delight  from  this  occupation, 
I  found  my  own  perceptions  quickened  by  his  ;  the  close? 
analysis  of  poetic  creations  called  unseen  beauties  to 
light,  and  brought  out  harmonious  elements  that  eluded 
more  hasty  scrutiny.  Sometimes  we  spent  three  or 
four  hours  in  the  morning  dissecting  a  single  play.  At 
night  I  tested  the  correctness  of  his  judgment  by  the 
effect  produced  upon  the  audience. 

Henceforward,  whenever  I  visited  New  York,  even 
sometimes  when  I  was  passing  through  on  my  way  to 
other  cities,  and  could  spare  but  a  couple  of  days,  I 
resumed  my  studies,  and  found  that,  for  the  time  thus 
devoted,  I  was  repaid  tenfold. 

My  second  appearance  in  America  was  at  the  Howard 
Athenaeum,  in  Boston,  the  same  theatre  in  which  I  bade 
farewell  a  few  days  before  I  sailed  for  Europe.  The 
engagement  was  a  long  and  brilliant  one.  I  next  acted 
in  Providence,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Cincinnati,  St. 
Louis.  These  engagements  occupied  every  night  up  to 
the  10th  of  December. 

I  had  promised  to  return  to  Philadelphia  by  Christ 
mas.  My  father  and  all  the  members  of  our  home 
circle  within  reach  were  to  assemble  beneath  the  roof 

of  our  brother-in-law,  Mr.  M e.      Invitations  -had 

been  issued  for  a  ball,  to  be  given  on  the  30th  ;  and  on 
that  occasion  my  sisters  were  to  enact  Gulzara,  or  the 
Persian  Slave,  the  little  drama  of  Melrose  memory, 


384       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

written  in  my  girlhood.  It  had  been  represented  during 
my  absence  at  the  residence  of  one  of  our  sisters  in 
Brookline,  near  Boston.  I  had  consented  to  act  as  stage 
manager  in  Philadelphia  in  "  getting  up  "  the  play,  and 
directing  the  costumes,  &c.,  though  I  would  perform  no 
part.  The  grave  realities  of  my  professional  life  made 
me  unwilling  to  act  in  private  for  amusement. 

In  St.  Louis  I  was  strongly  urged  to  accept  a  reen- 
gagement ;  but  the  impossibility  of  reaching  Philadel 
phia  in  time,  if  I  extended  my  stay,  compelled  me  to 
decline.  Before  my  engagement  drew  to  a  close  I 
received  a  letter  from  his  honor  J.  M.  Kenneth,  mayor 
of  the  city,  requesting,  in  the  name  of  the  citizens  of 
St.  Louis,  that  I  would  remain  to  receive  a  compliment 
ary  benefit.  The  flattering  terms  in  which  the  letter 
was  couched  rendered  the  temptation  to  accept  the  invi 
tation  no  inconsiderable  one.  But  the  remembrance  of 
the  family  assemblage  who  awaited  my  coming  in 
Philadelphia,  and  the  Christmas  festivities  with  which 
my  absence  would  interfere,  prevented  my  altering  my 
original  resolution.  The  complimentary  benefit  offered 
by  the  mayor  was,  consequently,  declined. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Waiting  of  the  Steamboat  Robert  Rogers  to  take  m  on  board.  —  Start 
ing  at  Midnight.  — Sudden  Freezing  of  tJie  Ohio  River. —  Cutting 
through  the  Ice.  —  The  Boat  frozen  in.  —  A  trying  Predicament.  — 
Conversation  with  the  old  Pilot.  —  The  lunatic  Sisters.  —  Unex 
pected  Escorts.  — Female  Influence  over  a  Backwoodsman.  —  Jour 
ney  in  an  Ox  Cart.  —  Arrival  at  Evansville.  —  Courtesy  of  a  Bal- 
timorean.  —  Indiana  Roads.  —  White  River.  —  Crossing  the  par 
tially  frozen  River  on  Foot,  by  Starlight. — Vincennes.  —  Midnight 

Travelling  on  Foot  through  the  Snow.  —  Major  R 's  Joke.  — 

Terre  Haute.  —  A  Stage  selected  through  Presentiment.  —  Overturn 
of  the  other  Stage.  —  Serious  Accidents.  — An  aged  Couple  thrown 
over  a  Precipice.  —  The  little  Child.  —  Dayton.  —  Xenia.  —  Cleve 
land.  —  Alliance.  —  Salem.  —  Palestine.  —  Proverbial  American 
Gallantry.  —  Pittsburg. —  Christmas  Day.  —  A  Christmas  Fast. 
—  Alleghany  Mountains.  —  Descending  inclined  Planes. —  Oitt- 
skirts  of  Philadelphia.  —  Snoicbound.  —  The  Sisters.  —  A  joyful 
Meeting. 

THE  season  was  the  most  severely  cold  that  had  been 
known  for  many  years.  We  had  great  fears  of  being 
"  snowed  up  "  somewhere  on  our  way.  The  journey 
from  St.  Louis  to  Philadelphia  is  often  accomplished  in 
six  or  seven  days.  Any  detention  on  the  road  would 
interfere  with  the  object  of  my  rapid  travelling  —  the 
assumption  of  amateur  managerial  responsibilities  for 
the  New  Year's  fete.  The  steamboat  Robert  Rogers 
was  to  leave  St.  Louis  on  the  afternoon  of  the  10th 
December.  A  message  to  the  courteous  captain  delayed 
the  departure  of  the  boat  until  night,  when  my  duties  at 
the  theatre  would  be  over.  I  was  obliged  to  appear  in 
25  C385) 


386       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

two  plays  that  evening ;  and  though  we  hurried  off  with 
out  my  even  making  a  complete  change  of  attire,  it  was 
midnight  before  we  reached  the  landing.  The  boat 
started  as  soon  as  we  came  on  board,  greatly  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  impatient  passengers. 

I  had  been  wearied  out  with  nightly  personations, 
and  for  two  days  luxuriated  in  a  delightful  rest,  im 
prisoned  in  the  narrow  little  state  room,  which  I  never 
left.  The  companionship  of  books  and  pleasant  rev 
eries  was  a  refreshment  that  can  only  be  appreciated 
by  those  who  have  themselves  undergone  an  amount  of 
physical  and  mental  exertion  which  ended  in  complete 
exhaustion.  On  the  third  morning  I  was  roused  from 
a  half-waking  dream  by  Mrs.  Eenshaw's  sudden  excla 
mation  of  "  Good  gracious !  The  river  is  one  sheet 
of  ice!" 

I  sprang  up  in  alarm,  and  looked  out.  The  river 
resembled  a  huge  mirror,  upon  which  some  gazer  had 
breathed  and  left  a  haze  over  the  polished  glass.  The 
shores,  on  either  side,  were  banks  of  snow  drifted  into 
fantastical  shapes.  The  sunlight  reflected  on  their  daz 
zling  whiteness  almost  deprived  one  of  vision.  Our 
boat  was  cutting  bravely  through  the  ice,  and  still  pro 
gressed  with  rapidity.  We  had  just  entered  the  Ohio 
River  from  the  Mississippi.  I  forsook  my  state  room 
for  the  wheel  house,  and  passed  the  rest  of  that  day 
watching  the  ice  as  it  grew  more  and  more  solid,  and 
tormenting  the  pilots  with  useless  questions.  They  per 
ceived  my  restless  anxiety,  and  gave  me  the  comforting 
assurance  that  there  would  soon  come  a  thaw ;  that  we 
had  a  good  boat,  and  ice  must  be  pretty  deep  that  we 
could  not  make  our  way  through,  &c. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  woke,  the  boat  was  moving 


FREEZING    OF   THE    OHIO    RIVER.  387 

very  slowly,  with  a  pushing,  jerking,  striking-out  mo 
tion,  as  though  step  by  step  the  steam  king  were  bat 
tling  every  inch  of  the  way  with  the  frost  king,  and 
had  grown  weary  in  the  fight.  I  went  to  the  wheel 
house  again.  The  old  pilot  shook  his  head  at  my  first 
question,  and  I  stood  beside  him  silently  watching  — 
watching  in  almost  breathless  anxiety,  as  the  ice  grew 
thicker  and  thicker,  and  more  and  more  closely  closed 
around  us.  The  boat  made  her  way  slower  and  slower, 
and  suddenly  stopped.  "We  were  frozen  in  ! 

"  O,  what  shall  we  do?  "  I  asked  of  the  discouraged 
old  man,  as  he  let  go  of  the  helm.  "  How  long  may  we 
have  to  stay  here  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  right  sorry  for  you,  I  am ;  but  I'm  thinking 
the  boat  may  just  have  to  lie  here  perhaps  three  weeks, 
perhaps  a  month  —  there's  no  telling;  the  ice  is  many 
a  goqd  foot  deep,  or  we'd  have  made  some  headway 
through  it." 

"  Won't  it  perhaps  thaw  soon  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  don't  look  inclined." 

"What's  that  place  on  the  shore  where  I  see  a 
house  ?  " 

"  That's  a  little  spot  they  call  West  Franklin." 

"  Are  there  no  stages  that  start  from  there  ?  " 

"  Stages !  I  don't  believe  they've  got  any  thing  better 
than  a  cart  in  the  whole  place.  This  is  Indiana  State. 
Evansville  is  the  nearest  town  from  which  stages  start. 
But  stages  would  be  no  good  to  the  like  of  you.  You 
couldn't  travel  over  these  backwoods  roads  in  stages  — 
and  at  this  time  of  the  year  !  Why,  no  woman  could 
do  it.  unless  it  was  an  Indian  squaw.  The  stages  are 
sure  of  being  spilled  every  few  miles  —  dead  certain ! 
You  don't  know  what's  to  be  gone  through ;  never  think 


388      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

of  trusting  yourself  in  them  stages,  if  you  know  when 
you  are  well  off." 

"  But  will  nobody  leave  the  boat  for  weeks  to  come  ?  " 

"  Some  of  the  men  will,  in  course.  If  they  have  to 
walk  for  it,  they'll  get  on." 

Then  I'll  "get  on"  too,  I  thought  to  myself,  and 
returned  to  my  state  room  to  consult  with  my  faithful 
attendant.  She  had  never  seen  a  frozen  river,  and  I 
found  her  gazing  in  bewildered  admiration  at  the  glit 
tering  chains  of  ice  that  encircled  us.  There  was  such 
a  fascination  in  the  sight  that  she  could  hardly  lament 
over  our  trying  predicament. 

What  was  to  be  done?  We  were  not  acquainted 
with  a  single  passenger  on  board.  The  captain  was  in  a 
state  approaching  despair  at  the  heavy  losses  he  would 
sustain.  He  gave  us  the  sympathy  which  he  needed 
himself,  but  had  no  advice  to  offer,  except  that  we  should 
remain  quietly  on  board  until  "  there  came  a  thaw." 

Among  the  passengers  there  were  two  young  lunatic 
sisters.  One  of  them  talked,  shrieked,  or  sang  from 
morning  until  night,  and  almost  infected  those  around 
her  with  frenzy.  They  were  under  the  care  of  a 
keeper,  who  was  taking  them  to  an  asylum.  Bemain 
on  board  with  these  sounds  in  our  ears  —  this  mournful 
sight  daily  before  our  eyes  for  weeks !  The  prospect 
seemed  unendurable.  Besides,  what  would  the  expect 
ant  ones  in  Philadelphia  do  without  their  stage  director 
and  costumer  ?  The  play  of  Hamlet  with  the  part  of 
Hamlet  omitted ;  for  the  ball  and  private  performance 
were  principally  in  honor  of  my  return  to  America. 
These  would  have  to  go  on  while  we  were  gazing  at  our 
ice  manacles  in  our  frozen  prison  on  the  Ohio. 

Another  boat  had  been  frozen  in  near  ours.     From 


•UNEXPECTED    ESCORTS.  389 

that  boat  came  two  gentlemen,  who  sent  their  cards  to 

me.  The  elder,  Major  R ,  of  Philadelphia,  had 

been  presented  some  six  years  before.  I  had  seen  him 
but  once.  He  was  the  father  of  a  family.  The  younger, 

Mr.  N ,  of  ISW  York,  was  acquainted  with  one  of 

my  sisters.  They  seemed  to  me  Heaven-sent  for  our 
rescue  and  protection.  They  offered  to  serve  us  in  any 
way  in  their  power.  I  informed  them  of  my  determina 
tion  to  reach  Philadelphia  by  a  certain  day,  if  it  was 
possible ;  almost  if  it  was  impossible.  Finding  that  they 
could  not  dissuade  me  from  the  seemingly  mad  attempt, 
they  proposed  to  become  our  escorts.  Their  offer  was 
accepted  with  undisguised  pleasure. 

"  If  I  can  get  your  baggage  taken  by  some  cart  to  the 
next  town,  can  you  walk  ?  "  asked  Mr.  N . 

I  promptly  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Can  you  walk  eight  miles  ?  " 

"  Eight  miles  !     Yes,  to  be  sure." 

I  would  have  walked  fifty,  or  have  undertaken  to  do 
so,  to  have  been  put  in  the  way  of  completing  my  jour 
ney  in  the  desired  time.  Fortunately  I  was  in  vigorous 
health,  and  not  easily  daunted  by  the  prospect  of  ex 
posure  and  fatigue. 

Several  gentlemen  were  just  going  on  shore  to  secure 
any  conveyance  that  could  be  found.  It  was  very  prob 
able  that  there  was  not  more  than  one  in  the  place.  As 
they  landed  from  the  ice,  they  all  started  to  run ;  the 
first  one  that  reached  the  house  might  possibly  be  the 

only  one  who  would  be  accommodated.  Mr.  N 

and  another  gentleman  outstripped  the  others,  and  kept 
side  by  side ;  but  the  former  outwitted  his  nimble-footed 
companion,  by  shouting  out,  as  they  approached  the 


390       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

dwelling  and  perceived  its  owner,  "  I  engage  whatever 
conveyance  you  have  got." 

Mr.  N brought  us  word  that  the  "  only  convey 
ance-"  was  an  ox  cart!  It  could  carry  us  and  our 
baggage  also;  but  the  man  was  a  true  westerner,  an 
independent  sort  of  individual,  and  could  not  be  per 
suaded  to  start  that  day.  He  declared  that  he  could 
not  get  ready  before  the  morrow. 

A  day's  delay  was  a  serious  circumstance  in  such  a 
journey  as  we  were  undertaking. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  and  use  your  influence  ?  " 
said  Mr.  N . 

I  consented  without  hesitation.  We  walked  through 
the  uncleared  underbrush  and  through  deep  snow  to  the 
man's  log  cabin.  His  sickly-looking  wife  sat  by  the  fire, 
busied  with  the  care  of  three  pretty  children.  I  knew 
the  surest  avenue  (the  swift  railroad  route)  to  the  heart 
of  the  "  head  of  a  family,"  and  talked  to  the  wife  and  the 
little  ones,  and  made  them  comprehend  that  a  certain 
ox  cart  must  be  got  ready  that  very  day.  The  owner 
of  the  log  house  came  in,  and  before  he  went  out  I  had 
been  successful  in  my  mission,  and  the  cart  was  prom 
ised.  It  would  be  ready  in  an  hour,  he  said ;  and  it 
should  have  a  fine  pair  of  strong,  lively  horses,  instead 
of  oxen.  We  might  start  at  once. 

The  backwoodsman  kept  his  word.  At  the  appointed 
time  the  ox  cart  stood  ready  on  the  steep,  snow-covered 
bank  of  the  river.  The  trunks  were  tossed  (that  is  the 
only  word  to  use)  in.  It  was  a  piercingly  cold  day,  and 
we  obtained  the  captain's  permission  to  take  the  cotton 
wool  "  comforters  "  from  our  berths  for  additional  pro 
tection.  There  were  no  seats.  I  curled  myself  up  on 


JOURNEY   IN   AN    OX    CART.  391 

the  floor  of  the  cart ;  some  followed  my  example  ;  some 
sat  upon  the  trunks.  Three  of  the  party  had  just  nes 
tled  in  their  places  when  the  horses  took  fright  and 
started  off.  For  a  minute  or  two  there  was  a  great 
chance  of  our  being  dashed  to  pieces  over  the  abrupt 
declivity  that  formed  the  river  side  of  the  road.  Major 

R caught  the  horses'  heads,  and  they  were  stopped 

and  quieted.  The  owner  of  the  wagon  then  got  in,  the 
major  followed,  and  we  drove  off,  a  merry  party ;  for  we 
were  released  from  icy  captivity,  and  our  faces  were 
turned  towards  home.  The  cold  was  so  intense  that  my 
breath  froze  upon  the  handkerchief  which  I  held  to  my 
lips,  and  rendered  it  perfectly  stiff.  By  and  by  we  spied 
out  a  barn,  and  stopped  to  supply  our  ox  cart  with  hay 
for  softer  seats.  Every  once  in  a  while,  where  the  road 
was  very  uneven,  one  of  the  piled-up  trunks  would  be 
precipitated  forward  and  strike  us  on  the  shoulders. 
The  major,  in  his  military  capacity,  had  a  constant 
engagement  with  our  baggage,  to  protect  us  against  the 
assaults  of  these  enemies.  Mrs.  Renshaw  was  so  vio 
lently  struck  in  the  forehead  and  eye  that  she  bore  a 
black  remembrancer  of  the  "  dangers  she  had  passed  " 
for  many  weeks. 

We  reached  Evansville  (which  proved  to  be  twelve 
miles  from  West  Franklin  instead  of  eight)  in  the 
evening.  Stages  were  to  start  the  next  morning  for 
Vincennes;  but  every  place  was  taken.  Here  was  an 
other  difficulty,  and  it  seemed  an  insuperable  one,  inas 
much  as  any  person  who  would  venture  on  so  perilous 
a  journey  must  have  as  strong  reasons  for  making  his 

way  onward  as  we  had.     Mr.  C d,  of   Baltimore. 

who  had  engaged  three  places,  (I  never  knew  a  Balti- 
morean  yet  who  was  not  a  pattern  of  courtesy,)  hearing 


392      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

of  our  disappointment,  instantly  resigned  them  to  us, 
and  hunted  out  and  engaged  a  small  open  wagon,  in 
which  he  proposed  to  drive  the  major. 

Our  gigantic  baggage  occasioned  the  next  difficulty. 
No  sum  of  money  that  we  could  offer  —  and  we  did 
offer  some'  very  extravagant  amount  —  could  induce  the 
drivers  to  take  it  all  upon  the  stage  coach.  "We  had  to 
select  out  the  trunks  that  were  indispensable,  and  left 
the  rest  —  not  to  see  them  again  for  months. 

We  started  at  daylight  in  the  morning  —  such  a  bitter, 
cold  morning!  —  for  Vincennes.  The  roads  were  so 
rough  that  they  seemed  to  be  composed  of  huge  logs 
placed  a  couple  of  feet  apart ;  and  our  mode  of  progres 
sion  was  a  sudden  rising  up  of  the  stage,  pitching  every 
one  backward;  then  a  sudden  ducking  down  of  the 
wheels,  throwing  the  passengers  forwards,  after  having 
sent  them  up  until  many  a  head  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  roof  of  the  vehicle.  Then  the  coach  would  sway 
from  side  to  side,  until  it  appeared  impossible  that  it 
should  not  upset,  unless  it  had  the  faculty  of  maintain 
ing  its  equilibrium  belonging  to  an  acrobat.  Then  it 
would  drop  down  into  a  deep  rut  and  be  fastened  there 
for  some  minutes.  After  much  fierce  struggling  of  the 
horses  it  jolted  out  again,  tossing  about  every  thing 
and  every  body  inside  as  though  we  had  been  a  set  of 
jackstraws  in  a  child's  hand. 

We  reached  White  River  just  as  the  sun  was  going 
down  and  the  stars  were  stealing  out  in  the  sky.  What 
an  imposing  and  solemnly  beautiful  sight  that  ice-clad 
river  presented  !  You  might  have  fancied  the  colossal 
trees  that  lined  the  banks  were  groups  of  forest  giants, 
and  the  branches  outspread  skeleton  arms  covered  with 
snow  drapery,  and  the  crystalline  pendants  fingers. 


CROSSING   A    FROZEN   RIVER   BY   STARLIGHT.      393 

They  seemed  to  be  keeping  a  deathwatch  over  the 
white-shrouded  earth  —  which  wore  a  glassy,  corpse-like 
smile,  suiting  the  face  of  Nature  on  her  bier.  It  was  an 
interlunar  period.  The  stars  looked  down  from  their 
azure  thrones  through  a  tissue  of  silver  mist  that  spread 
itself  over  the  heavens.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  deep 
silence,  and  we  all  stood  gazing  with  hushed  voices.  I 
would  have  taken  our  perilous  journey  —  thus  far  — 
merely  to  have  beheld  that  awe-inspiring,  winter  picture. 

A  steamboat  had  sunk  in  that  river  a  few  days  be 
fore.  It  was  now  thickly  frozen  over  —  the  ferry 
boat  immovable  in  the  ice  —  the  ferryman  ill.  There 
was  no  house  on  that  side  of  the  stream  —  no  shelter 
of  any  kind.  To  cross  the  ice  on  foot,  while  the  gentle 
men  carried  over  our  baggage,  was  the  only  alternative. 
In  the  centre  of  the  river  ran  a  line  of  unfrozen  water. 
That  was  dangerous.  It  could  only  be  avoided  by 
walking  some  distance  on  the  edge  of  the  frozen  stream, 
until  we  came  to  a  narrow  bridge  of  ice,  through  that 
centre  current,  firm  enough  to  bear  us.  Every  now- 
and  then  there  was  a  suspicious,  crackling  sound  beneath 
our  feet,  as  though  the  ice  were  suddenly  giving  way ; 
and  we  stepped  lightly  and  cautiously,  and  at  times 
tremblingly,  when  that  warning  noise  fell  on  our  ears. 
But  the  strange  beauty  of  the  scene  almost  beguiled  us 
o4  terror. 

There  were  stages  waiting  for  us  on  the  other  side, 
and  we  reached  Vincennes  at  eleven  o'clock.  What  a 
delicious  sleep  I  had  that  night !  But  it  was  of  short 
duration  —  for  we  had  to  be  up  and  dressed  by  daylight. 
We  were  packed  closely  in  the  stage  coaches  again,  — 
so  closely  that  almost  all  limbs  were  cramped  immova 
bly,  —  and  started  for  Terre  Haute.  The  roads  were 


394       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

worse  than  ever,  and  we  made  up  our  minds  to  the 
necessity  of  encountering  an  upset.  Towards  evening 
one  of  the  gentlemen  informed  us  that  our  driver,  "  while 
watering  his  horses'  mouths,"  had  been  sympathetically 
seized  with  a  sudden  thirst,  and,  in  consequence,  could 
not  now  be  trusted  in  the  box  without  a  companion. 
Our  situation  became  more  perilous  than  ever.  The 
road  was  but  just  visible  in  the  starlight.  About  mid 
night  the  stage  suddenly  sank  into  a  deep  gully.  The 
gentlemen  were  all  obliged  to  descend  and  assist  in 
restoring  its  position,  by  means  of  rails  taken  from  the 
nearest  fence.  With  great  difficulty  the  lumbering  con 
veyance  was  once  more  elevated. 

Major  R made  a  good  joke  on  the  occasion.  He 

had  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  articles  on  the  theatre  — 
its  uses,  abuses,  &c. ;  and  turning  to  me,  he  remarked, 
"  I  have  been  trying  for  years  past  to  elevate  the  stage  ; 
and  I  have  just  succeeded,  with  you  upon  it !  " 

A  little  farther  on  the  road  grew  so  dangerous  that 
.to  remain  inside  of  the  coach  would  have  been  fool 
hardy.  We  all  alighted  and  walked  through  the  snow, 
sometimes  ankle-deep,  sometimes  knee-deep,  for  a  long 
distance.  I  was  wrapped  in  an  odd  variety  of  protect 
ing  garments  —  shawl,  cloak,  coat,  blanket ;  but  they 
were  not  proof  against  the  "  icy  fang  and  churlish 
chiding  of  the  winter's  wind,"  for  I  felt  as  if  sudden^ 
deprived  of  nose  and  ears,  and  the  air  seemed  to 
turn  to  thin  ice  between  my  lips  —  yet  we  'trudged 
merrily  onward. 

We  reached  Terre  Haute  at  four  in  the  morning, 
and  started  at  six  for  Indianapolis,  arriving  late  in  the 
evening  without  accident. 

At  daylight  we  were  to  start  for  Xenia.     Two  stages 


STAGE-COACH  ACCIDENT.  395 

were  preparing  to  leave  at  the  same  time.  I  was  stand 
ing  at  the  door  when  the  drivers  commenced  shouldering 
the  baggage.  Yielding  to'  an  impulse  which  I  did  not 
comprehend,  and  which  appeared  to  me  simply  a  whim, 
I  said  to  one  of  the  men,  "Put  my  baggage  upon  that 
coach ;  I  am  going  in  that ; "  pointing  out  the  second 
coach.  -  j l< 

There  was  not  the  slightest  obvious  difference  in  the 
coaches ;  yet  I  strongly  preferred  one  to  the  other. 

"  Why  not  go  in  the  first  coach  ?  "  asked  one  of  our 
escorts,  remonstratingly  ;  "  we  shall  get  on  faster." 

"  I  don't  know  why  —  I  fancy  this  one,"  was  my 
reasonless  answer.  I  could  give  no  better. 

The  first  stage  kept  on  a  few  paces  ahead  of  us  for 
some  hours.  We  were  traversing  a  very  narrow  road, 
and  came  to  a  place  where  on  one  side  of  the  high 
bank  was  a  frozen  river,  and  on  the  other  side  a  preci 
pice  of  thirty  feet.  An  aged  man  was  driving  his  wife 
in  a  cart  from  the  opposite  direction.  The  driver  of 
the  first  coach,  in,  making  a  careless  and  violent  attempt 
to  pass  him  hastily,  brought  the  two  conveyances  in  col 
lision.  The  cart  with  the  venerable  couple  was  thrown 
off  the  precipice  —  the  stage  upset  over  the  bank  into 
the  frozen  river ! 

Our  coach  immediately  stopped,  and  the  passengers 
ran  to  the  assistance  of  the  unfortunates.  It  was  a 
fearful  sight  to  behold  that  poor  old  man  lifted  up,  ap 
parently  in  a  dying  state.  His  wife,  too,  was  much 
injured,  if  we  might  judge  from  her  groans  and  lamen 
tations  as  she  was  carried  up  the  bank.  The  driver  of 
the  coach  had  his  skull  fractured,  and  was  borne  to  a 
cottage  near.  Happily,  there  were  no  women  in  the 


396      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

coach,  —  indeed,  we  met  none  in  our  whole  journey,  — 
but  there  was  a  little  girl  about  three  years  old.  She 
had  not  received  even  a  bruise.  The  hardest  natures 
present  involuntarily  softened,  when,  as  her  frightened 
father  caught  her  up,  she  looked  with  sweet  serenity  in 
his  face,  and  said,  "  Father,  I'm  not  hurt ! " 

He  was  a  widower ;  and,  as  he  clasped  her  tightly 
in  his  arms,  he  murmured,  "Thank  Heaven!  for  I 
couldn't  have  helped  committing  murder  if  you  had 
been!" 

It  seemed  strange  that,  without  a  conscious  reason,  I 
had  refused  to  enter  the  very  coach  that  met  this  acci 
dent. 

None  of  the  passengers  were  seriously  injured. 
They  mounted  upon  our  already  heavily-laden  vehicle ; 
and,  travelling  at  a  snail's  pace,  we  reached  Dayton  at 
night.  Soon  after  sunrise  we  started  for  Xenia,  and 
from  thence  for  Cleveland,  where  we  arrived  that  night. 
In  the  morning  we  exchanged  our  jolting  stage  coaches 
for  the  railway  cars,  which  took  us  to  Alliance  by  two 
o'clock.  But  at  Salem  we  had  to  encounter  the  perils 
of  staging  again,  as  the  only  means  of  progression. 
We  reached  Palestine  late  at  night,  and  with  great 
difficulty  found  shelter.  We  were  indebted  for  it  at 
last  to  that  prompt  gallantry,  characteristic  of  Ameri 
cans,  which  induced  gentlemen  already  provided  with 
lodgings  to  surrender  them  for  our  accommodation. 
Every  place  of  refuge  was  thronged  with  travellers, 
who,  like  ourselves,  had  been  snowbound,  on  rivers  or 
railroads. 

The  next  day  we  left  Palestine  by  railroad,  and  reached 
Pittsburg  at  night.  The  morning  after  was  Christmas. 


A    CHRISTMAS   FAST.  397 

We  started  from  Pittsburg  tit  half  past  six,  —  again  by 
railroad,  —  but  at  half  past  seven  we  had  once  more  to 
resort  to  stage  coaches.  There  was  many  a  bountiful 
Christmas  dinner  eaten  that  day  in  our  land  of  abun 
dance  ;  but  our  party,  after  an  early  and  hurried  break 
fast,  tasted  no  food  again  until  eleven  o'clock  at  night  — 
a  Christmas  fast  instead  of  a  Christmas  feast !  Often, 
on  our  journey,  we  had  partaken  of  but  one  rapid  meal 
during  the  day.  Sometimes  we  contented  ourselves 
with  frozen  cheese,  and  biscuits  that  were  not  frozen 
only  because  they  could  not  freeze.  These  were  the 
nearest  approaches  to  dainties  that  could  be  purchased 
on  the  road.  They  were  palatable  enough  —  for  nour 
ishment,  like  all  things  else,  has  its  fictitious  value  given 
by  circumstances.  The  sharp  air  and  the  long  journey 
imparted  to  our  frozen  cheese  and  stony  biscuits  a 
delicious  relish. 

At  four  o'clock  we  again  entered  upon  the  railroad, 
and  made  the  descent  of  the  nine  (I  think  there  are 
nine)  inclined  planes,  which  perilous  feat  was  not  ac 
complished  until  eleven  at  night.  The  sun  was  setting 
gloriously  as  we  started,  and  rendered  those  Alleghany 
Mountains,  in  their  glittering  snow  garments,  almost  as 
grandly  beautiful  as  in  their  lovely  spring  or  gorgeous 
autumn  vesture.  I  had  seen  them  in  all  three  attires. 

We  travelled  all  Christmas  night  and  all  the  next 
day,,  and  about  nine  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  26th 
reached  the  outskirts  of  Philadelphia,  just  entered  the 
suburbs,  and  then  were  stopped !  The  train  could  not 
approach  the  station ;  embankments  of  snow  had  rendered 
the  roads  thoroughly  impassable. 

During  our  journey  of  seventeen  days  I  had  con 
stantly  telegraphed  my  brother-in-law  of  the  progress 


398       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

we  made  over  the  icebound  roads,  that  the  anxious 
hearts  assembled  beneath  his  roof  might  be  relieved. 
The  despatches  took  nearly  as  long  as  we  did  on  their 
routej  and  our  coming  in  time  for  the  fete  was  almost 
despaired  of. 

We  waited  as  long  in  the  immovable  train  as  my  im 
patient  spirit  could  endure.  The  cars  had  stopped  not 
more  than  a  mile  from  my  brother-in-law's  house,  which 
was  situated  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city.  No  sort  of 
conveyance  could  be  procured.  I  proposed  that  we 
should  leave  the  train  and  walk.  We  bade  adieu  to  the 
elder  of  our  escorts,  who  had  become  quite  ill  from  fa 
tigue,  and,  under  the  protection  of  the  younger,  we  once 
more  made  our  way  through  the  snow  on  foot.  The 
sheets  of  ice  that  covered,  the  streets  made  pedestrianism 
tolerably  dangerous  ;  but  at  Vincennes  we  had  purchased 
thick  woollen  stockings  (such  as  are  used  by  carmen, 
&c.)  and  drawn  them  over  our  shoes  and  overshoes, 
and  they  prevented  our  slipping. 

At  last  the  hospitable  mansion,  which  had  shone  in 
my  mind  like  a  far-off  beacon  through  the  long  journey, 
and  been  seen  in  every  dream  that  visited  my  rare 
slumbers,  was  in  sight !  A  very  gentle  ring  startled 
none  of  the  household  within.  I  made  a  sign  of  silence 
to  the  astonished  servant  who  answered  the  summons, 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing  room  myself.  The 
sisters  were  sitting  around  a  table  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  large,  brilliantly  illuminated  apartment.  My  father 
and  brothers-in-law  had  gone  to  the  station  in  hope  of 
our  arrival.  The  group  of  heads,  bended  over  flying 
needles,  were  not  lifted  at  the  quiet  opening  of  the  door ; 
but  at  the  joyful  "  Huzza !  huzza  ! "  to  which  I  gave 
utterance,  what  a  sudden  turning  towards  us  was  there 


JOYFUL    MEETING.  399 

of  glad  faces  —  what  springing  from  seats  —  what  rush- 
ings  to  the  door  where  we  stood  —  what  floods  of 
questions  —  what  greetings  of  delight ! 

It  wanted  but  three  days  of  the  ball.  Invitations 
had  been  issued  some  time  previous,  and  enclosed  with 
in  these  was  the  programme  of 

"  GULZARA, 

OR 

THE  PERSIAN   SLAVE ; 
WRITTEN  FOB  PRIVATE  REPRESENTATION, 

BT 

ANNA  CORA  MOWATT. 

TO     BE     EXACTED     BT     HER     SISTERS." 

What  preparations  had  yet  to  be  made  !  —  prepara 
tions  to  which  the  exhausted  travellers  just  arrived 
were  indispensable. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Retrospection.  —  The  Neio  Year's  Fete  in  Philadelphia.  —  Githara, 
or  (he  Persian  Slave.  —  Its  first  Production  at  Melrose,  and  the 
present  Representation.  —  My  Father.  —  The  acting  of  five  Sis 
ters.  —  Changes.  —  Dr.  M IV s  critical  Opinion  of  Giilzara's 

amateur  Representative.  —  Richmond.  —  Snowbound  again.  —  A 
Repetition  of  Western  Experiences.  —  Baltimore.  —  Providence.  — 
Boston. —  Long  Engagement. — Attack  of  Bronchitis.  —  Excursion 
on  Horseback.  — A  serious  Accident.  — Attending  Circumstances.  — 
Untimely  telegraphic  Despatches.  —  Illness.  —  Letter  from  the  May 
or  and  various  distinguished  Citizens.  —  Complimentary  Benefit.  — 
The  'Welcome.  —  Irrepressible  Emotion.  —  Parthenia.  —  Wreath 
of  natural  Floicers  woven  on  the  Stage.  —  ReVngagement  in  Bos 
ton,  Cincinnati,  and  Louisville.  —  Funeral  of  Henri/  Clay.  —  Em 
blematical  funeral  Decorations.  —  Opening  of  the  Metropolitan 
Theatre  in  Buffalo.  —  Inaugural  Address.  — An  Architect's  Attack 
of  Stage  Fright.  —  The  Prevalence  of  Bronchitis  amongst  Actors 
ludicrously  exhibited  at  Rehearsal.  —  Broadway  Theatre.  —  A 
painful  Engagement.  —  Baltimore.  —  Presentation  of  a  Fawn.  — 
A  Star  of  Floicers.  —  Return  to  Boston.  —  Southern  Tour.  — 
Washington.  —  Richmond.  —  Mobile.  —  New  Orleans.  —  Produc 
tion  of  Fashion  in  New  Orleans.  — III  Effects  of  the  Climate. 


WHAT  sad  mutations,  what  strange  events,  had  thrown 
their  deep  shadows  over  an  existence  which  had  re 
flected  nothing  but  sunshine,  when  I  wrote  that  little 
drama  in  Paris,  for  the  gratification  of  my  own  tastes 
—  when  my  young  sisters  and  I  performed  it  at  Melrose 
for  the  amusement  of  our  friends !  Well  was  it  that  no 
prophetic  visions  presaged  the  future  that  awaited  me ! 
And  yet,  to  that  future  career,  the  production  and  per 
formance  of  this  very  play  formed  a  first,  easy  step  of 

(400) 


AMATEUR   PERFORMANCE.  401 

preparation,  unknown,  unconscious,  yet  distinctly  ordered 
preparation ! 

The  stage  appointments  of  Gulzara,  as  represented 
in  Philadelphia,  at  the  mansion  of  my  brother-in-law, 
were  even  more  unique  than  ours  had  been  at  Melrose. 
Our  scenery  for  the  Melrose  representation  had  been 
painted  in  Paris  ;  and  yet  it  could  scarcely  compare,  in 
tasteful  execution,  with  the  counterfeit  presentment  of 
groves  and  gardens  which  came  from  the  hands  of  the 
scenic  artist  of  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  whom  my 
brother-in-law  employed.  The  scenes  were  delineated 
with  a  finished  delicacy  which  challenged  the  most 
minute  inspection.  On  the  drop  curtain  was  admirably 
depicted  a  romantic  view  of  scenery  on  the  Rhine.  The 
stage  accessories  were  richer  than  they  could  have  been 
in  any  public  theatre  ;  the  costuming  was  strictly  correct, 
and  as  graceful  as  it  could  well  be  fashioned. 

Again  our  father  sat  in  the  centre  of  the  assembled 
guests  to  witness  the  performance  of  his  children.  In 
him,  how  little  outward  change  was  wrought  by  the 
years  that  had  flitted  lightly  over  his  head  since  he  first 
smiled  approval  upon  the  little  drama  at  Melrose! 
With  the  few  added  snows  upon  his  brow,  no  vigor  had 
been  taken  away.  His  winter,  in  its  evergreen  blossom 
ing,  was  too  kindly  for  frost,  and  youth  had  left  behind 
the  radiant  halo  of  a  fresh  and  buoyant  spirit.  By  his 
side  sat,  as  before,  our  gentle  second  mother,  whose 
children  were  now  most  valuable  additions  to  our  do 
mestic  dramatic  corps. 

Again  the  curtain   rose  upon  Zulieka,  and  Fatima 

reclining  at  her  feet.     The  Zulieka  was  the  same  as  on 

the  play's  first  representation ;  but  the  sister  May,  then 

just  budding  into  girlhood,  was  now  a  wife  and  mother. 

26 


402      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

In  her  acting  there  was  more  intensity  and  reality  than 
formerly ;  but  it  had  lost  none  of  its  unaffected  sim 
plicity.  Fatima  was  most  sweetly  personated  by  a  dear 
friend. 

Gulzara,  which  I  had  enacted  in  other  days,  was 
more  powerfully  imbodied  by  my  sister  Julia,  then  our 
little  Amurath.  The  precocious  child,  grown  to  woman 
hood,  presented  one  of  the  rare  instances  where  the 
promise  of  a  forward  spring  was  fulfilled.  Just  as  she 
passed  the  verge  of  childhood  we  had  decked  her  as  a 
bride,  and  she  was  now  a  youthful  wife  and  mother. 

The  boy  Amurath  of  to-night  was  our  young  sister 
Emily,  the  eldest  of  the  four  sisters  given  us  by  our 
second  mother.  Her  Oriental  countenance,  which 
Heaven  formed  amongst  those  things  that  need  no 
praising,  was  even  more  suited  to  the  Turkish  boy  than 
little  Julia's  had  been.  Emily  was  Julia's  pupil,  as 
Julia  had  been  mine.  The  new  Amurath  acted  with  a 
naturalness  and  spirit  which  at  least  approached  the 
personation  of  her  tutor. 

The  simple  part  of  Katinka  was  rendered  by  our 
little  sister  Grace  (Emily's  junior  by  two  years)  in  a 
manner  which  her  own  name  could  best  express. 

Our  hostess,  my  sister  Emma,  was  the  dark-eyed 
Ayesha,  and  did  her  best  to  look  excessively  malignant 
and  wicked  in  personating  the  indispensable  villain  of 
the  plot  —  an  element  not  easily  omitted  in  the  drama, 
where  the  distinctions  of  light  and  shade  are  as  essential 
as  in  a  picture.  But  our  Ayesha  created  a  deeper 
impression  through  her  penitence  than  by  her  revenge 
ful  triumphs.  Her  tears  drew  tears  more  readily  than 
her  evidently  fictitious  anger  excited  sympathy. 

Could  I  assume  the  tone  of  the  author-critic  in  re- 


GULZARA'S  AMATEUR  REPRESENTATIVE.   403 

viewing  the  performances  of  my  sisters,  and  forget  for 
the  moment  (what  I  should  be  most  unwilling  often  to 
forget)  the  tie  between  us,  I  could  give  a  more  adequate 
description  of  their  personations.  Our  very  kinship 
throws  a  restraint  over  my  commendation  of  what  all 
commended,  and  prevents  my  dwelling  upon  gifts  of 
mind  and  person  which  justice  would  force  me  to  paint 
in  glowing  colors  had  the  performers  of  Gulzara  been 
strangers.  But  this  I  may  say,  that,  as  I  watched  their 
imbodiment  of  my  youthful  and  imperfect  creations,  the 
discomforts  and  perils  of  the  seventeen  days'  journey 
over  frozen  rivers  and  mountains  of  snow  faded  into 
insignificance. 

During  the  performance,  I  overheard  Dr.  M 11, 

of  Philadelphia,  a  critic  of  indisputable  taste,  whisper 

to  a  friend,  "  If  Mrs.  S (my  sister  Julia)  were  on 

the  stage,  Mrs.  Mowatt  would  have  to  look  out  for  her 
laurels." 

Proud  as  I  felt  of  my  sister's  talents,  I  could  not 
repress  a  half  shudder  and  a  mental  exclamation  of 
thankfulness  that  the  happy  circumstances  by  which 
she  was  surrounded  rendered  no  event  more  unlikely 
than  a  summons  for  her  to  "  translate  the  stubbornness 
of  fortune  "  to  such  a  use.  "  Heaven  shield  her  from 
the  weariness  and  trials  of  the  professional  actress,  and 
never  let  stage  dust  fall  upon  her  young  head,  her 
fresh  nature  ! "  was  my  fervent  ejaculation.  And  I  say 
this,  though  no  one  reveres  the  profession  more  than  I 
do,  or  entertains  stronger  convictions  that  the  vocation 
of  the  actor  may  be  made  to  command  respect  —  may 
be  rendered  honorable  in  the  persons  of  the  humblest 
as  of  the  highest  members  of  the  profession. 

The  representation  of  Gulzara  was  succeeded  by  a 


404      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

ball ;  and  the  occasion  was  one  which  many  lips  have 
declared  would  not  easily  be  forgotten. 

Soon  after  the  New  Year's  fete  the  sisters  again  dis 
persed,  the  others  returned  to  their  homes,  and  I 
resumed  my  professional  duties. 

My  first  engagement  this  year  was  at  Richmond, 
Virginia.  The  ill  effects  of  our  hazardous  western 
journey,  with  its  fatigues  and  manifold  exposures  to 
cold,  now  rendered  themselves  apparent.  I  almost 
entirely  lost  the  use  of  my  voice.  But  the  engagement 
was  an  eminently  prosperous  one ;  and  I  yielded  to '  the 
entreaties  of  the  managers,  who  begged  that  I  would 
not  allow  my  increasing  hoarseness  to  cause  an  inter 
ruption.  Thus  was  sown  the  seed  of  future  bronchitis. 

In  Richmond  we  were  again  "  snowed  up  "  —  the 
roads  impassable  —  the  rivers  frozen.  After  a  week'? 
detention  we  braved  a  repetition  of  our  western  experi 
ences,  and  made  the  journey  to  Baltimore,  partly  in 
stage  coaches,  and  partly  in  open  sleighs.  On  this  oc 
casion,  however,  we  were  accompanied  by  a  young 
nephew,  who,  having  just  arrived  at  the  age  of  transition 
between  youth  and  manhood,  when  the  spirit  of  chivalry 
is  newly  enkindled  in  the  breast,  proved  the  most  ener 
getic  and  efficient  of  escorts. 

I  had  promised  to  revisit  Boston  and  fulfil  a  long 
engagement,  commencing  early  in  February.  It  was  a 
city  to  which  I  always  gladly  returned.  On  my  way 
there  I  acted  a  week  in  Baltimore,  and  another  in 
Providence.  In  Boston  I  performed  for  four  successive 
weeks,  in  spite  of  the  most  painful  hoarseness.  It  was 
a  sad  annoyance  to  find  all  high  notes  suddenly  cut  off, 
and  to  be  forced  to  use  sepulchral  tones  even  in  light 
comedy  —  imparting  to  Rosalind  and  Beatrice  raven- 


ACCIDENT  ON  HORSEBACK.          405 

like  intonations  not  particularly  hilarious.  Though,  to 
be  sure,  Rosalind,  in  her  pedestrian  journey  to  the  forest 
of  Arden,  might  have  had  her  vocal  chords  injured  by 
inclement  weather;  and  Beatrice,  eavesdropping  in  the 
bower,  might  have  had  her  lungs  affected  at  the  same 
moment  as  her  heart.  I  unwisely  disregarded  the  per 
suasions  of  my  physician,  Dr.  C e,  who  recom 
mended  perfect  rest. 

I  had  engaged  to  appear  in  New  York  the  beginning 
of  April,  and  only  intended  to  allow  my  voice  a  couple 
of  weeks  of  repose. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  middle  of  March,  I  proposed  to 
my  sister  May  that  we  should  visit  Brookline  on  horse 
back.  We  were  both  exceedingly  fond  of  equestrian 
exercise,  and  had  not  rode  together  since  the  bright 
days  at  Melrose,  when  "  Silk  "  and  "  Queen  Mab  "  used 
to  bear  us  over  the  level  roads.  She  consented ;  but 

my  artist  brother-in-law,  Mr.  T n,  at  whose  house  I 

was  residing,  chanced  to  be  too  unwell  to  accompany  us. 
"We  were  attended  by  the  master  of  the  stables  from 
which  our  carriages  were  usually  supplied.  The  horses 
we  rode  belonged  to  a  riding  school.  A  heavy  snow, 
just  melting,  made  the  roads  rather  slippery.  Neverthe 
less,  we  enjoyed  an  invigoratingly  delightful  gallop  to 
Brookline,  paid  a  short  visit  to  the  sister  who  lived 
there,  and  were  returning  home  in  exuberant  spirits. 
Passing  up  Tremont  Road,  just  as  we  reached  Boylston 
Street,  the  horses  made  a  forcible  attempt  to  turn  the 
corner  —  the  street  led  to  their  stable.  My  horse  had 
shied  several  times  on  the  road,  and  evinced  a  tolerably 
unruly  spirit.  All  three  horses  now  began  to  prance 
and  grow  unmanageable.  We  could  not  force  them  on. 
Suddenly  my  horse  plunged  and  reared.  We  were  just 


406      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

opposite  the  Winthrop  House,  and  a  crowd  had  by  this 
time  assembled.  Nobody  interfered,  as  I  appeared  to 
be  self-possessed,  and  capable  of  managing  the  fractious 
pony.  He  reared  again  and  again,  —  the  third  time  I 
could  feel  his  feet  sliding  in  the  slippery  mud,  —  he  lost 
his  equilibrium,  and  fell  backwards  directly  upon  me. 
I  remember  the  crushing  sensation,  the  lightning-like 
thought,  "  I  am  killed ! "  and  nothing  after  that  until  I 
found  myself  lying  in  a  parlor,  a  dense  crowd  of  faces 
bending  over  me,  and  around  me  a  confusion  of  voices, 
and  of  feet  running  to  and  fro.  I  was  just  wondering 
whether  I  was  in  this  world  or  in  a  better,  when  one 
pale,  terrified  face,  pressed  closer  than  the  others,  dis 
pelled  my  doubts :  it  was  my  sister's.  I  was  incapable  of 
moving  or  of  speaking  except  with  great  difficulty ;  but 
I  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  say,  "  Send  for  Dr. 
C e."  He  was  my  physician,  and  a  valued  friend. 

It  was  somewhat  singular  that  two  physicians,  Drs. 

B w  and  T d,  chanced  to  be  driving  by  at  the 

moment  the  accident  occurred,  and  witnessed  the  double 
fall.  They  immediately  proffered  their  aid. 

My  brother-in-law  was  quickly  apprised  of  the  mishap, 
with  the  supplementary  information  that  I  was  probably 
killed.  The  news  reporters  deprived  me  of  life  in  the 
most  unceremonious  manner.  That  very  evening  tele 
graphic  despatches  flew  over  the  country,  some  announ 
cing  that  I  was  dangerously  injured,  some  that  I  had 
departed  this  life.  It  was  through  these  unexpected 
channels  that  the  news  reached  the  ears  of  my  father 
and  sisters. 

It  seemed  marvellous  —  so  say  the  many  who  beheld 
the  accident  —  that  I  was  not  instantly  deprived  of 
earthly  existence.  But  I  was  only  severely  crushed, 


LETTER   FROM   BOSTON    FRIENDS.  407 

and  received  a  more  troublesome  than  dangerous  injury 
in  the  left  side  —  one  -which  Touchstone  objects  *to 
regarding  as  "  legitimate  sport  for  ladies."  *  I,  speaking 
from  experience,  heartily  agree  with  him. 

I  retained  perfect  consciousness  when  I  was  carried 
through  the  streets  upon  a  sofa,  beside  which  walked 
the  two  physicians  and  my  brother-in-law.  I  could 
hear  the  trampling  feet  of  the  crowd  which  every  mo 
ment  swelled  in  number,  and  I  distinguished  the  con 
stant  query  of  new  comers,  demanding,  "  Is  she  killed  ?  " 
"  Is  she  quite  dead  ? "  and  the  answers,  sometimes  du 
bious,  sometimes  inclining  to  the  affirmative.  Once  or 
twice  I  experienced  a  strong  inclination  to  contradict 
my  own  departure  from  the  body. 

Dr.  C e  soon  arrived,  and  I  was  attended  by  him 

and  Dr.  T d.  For  six  weeks  I  was  confined  to  my 

room ;  but  in  eight  I  had  almost  entirely  recovered. 

My  Boston  friends  addressed  me  the  following  letter, 
headed  by  his  honor  the  mayor  of  the  city  :  — 

TO  MRS.  ANNA  CORA  MO  WATT. 

BOSTON,  May  13,  1852. 

MADAM  :  The  undersigned,  your  friends,  and  friends 
of  the  drama,  are  desirous  of  offering  to  you  a  public 
expression  of  your  services  and  your  worth  in  the 
sphere  of  dramatic  art.  To  be  at  once  a  writer  of 
successful  plays  and  a  popular  actress  is  to  enjoy  a  dis 
tinction  which  few  can  reach.  But  this  is  not  all  that 

*  Touchstone.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the  ladies 
have  lost? 

Monsieur  Le  Beau.  Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touchstone.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day ;  it  is  the  first 
time  that  I  ever  heard  breaking  of  ribs  was  sport  for  ladies. — As 
You  Like  It. 


408       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

can  be  said  of  you.  You  have  not  bought  these  honors 
with  the  price  of  better  things.  You  have  moved  with 
simple  dignity  along  the  slippery  paths  of  praise  and 
success.  When  we  have  seen  you  imbodying  your 
own  conceptions  of  tenderness  and  truth,  we  have  felt 
that  the  charm  of  your  performance  flowed  from  the 
fact  that  your  words  and  your  voice  were  but  imperfect 
expressions  of  yourself.  And  now  that  you  have  lately 
stood  on  the  edge  of  another  life,  we  feel  that  we  should 
welcome  you  back  to  ours  with  more  cordial  greetings 
and  more  earnest  voices. 

The  manager  of  the  Howard  Athenaeum  has  gener 
ously  consented  to  place  his  house  at  the  disposition  of 
your  friends,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  you  a  compli 
mentary  benefit,  if  agreeable  to  your  wishes,  upon  such 
evening  of  next  week  as  may  suit  your  convenience. 

BENJAMIN  SEAVER,  E.  P.  CLARK, 

JNO.  H.  WILKINS,  T.  G.  APPLETON, 

SAMPSON  REED,  WM.  ED.  CO  ALE, 

JOHN  P.   ODER,  JOHN  WARE, 

GEO.  S.  HILLARD,  HORATIO  WOODMAN, 
HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW,        EDMUND  A.   GRATTAN, 

E.  P.  WHIPPLE,  A.  W.  THAXTER,  JR., 

HENRY  T.  PARKER,  JNO.  K.  HALL, 

P.  W.  CHANDLER,  EPES   SARGENT 

EDW.  C.  BATES,  EGBERT  G.  SHAW. 
THOMAS  LAMB, 

I  could  not  read  this  letter  without  emotion,  but  of 
too  mixed  a  character  to  be  framed  into  language. 
The  paramount  sensation  was  thankfulness  that  I  had 
accomplished  sufficient  in  my  profession  to  render  my 
well  being  a  matter  of  interest  —  niy  escape  from  immi 
nent  peril  a  source  of  rejoicing  to  minds  whose  "  good 
report"  was  so  intrinsically  valuable. 

I  returned  an  answer  expressive  of  my  grateful  ac- 


COMPLIMENTARY    BENEFIT.  409 

knowledgnients,  (that  is,  I  attempted  to  express  them, 
but  very  possibly  failed,)  and  accepted  the  compli 
mentary  benefit. 

I  requested  permission  to  select  the  character  of  Par- 
thenia,  in  Mrs.  LovelTs  translation  of  Ingomar.  This 
was  one  of  my  favorite  imbodiments.  There  is  an  in 
nate  delicacy,  an  unconscious  goodness,  a  deptli  of  feel 
ing,  a  high-toned  sense  of  right  pervading  the  poet's 
creation  of  Parthenia  which  I  found  irresistibly  attrac 
tive.  Perhaps,  too,  I  liked  the  play  on  account  of  its 
thorough  exemplification  of  woman's  mysterious  influ 
ence  over  the  sterner  sex. 

Somebody  has  laughingly  called  Ingomar  a  covert 
"  woman's  rights "  drama.  I  fancy  that  few  men 
would  object  to  the  very  obvious  right  of  woman  to 
Pdrthenia-ize  without  seriously  trenching  upon  their 
sphere  of  action. 

The  complimentary  benefit  took  place  on  the  21st 
day  of  May,  1852.  It  was  one  of  those  occasions  which 
are  written  on  the  pages  of  life's  record  in  golden  letters. 
But  when  I  stood  upon  the  stage  before  that  brilliant 
crowd,  and  heard  the  welcome,  —  warmer,  longer,  more 
heart-emanating,  and  heart-stirring  than  it  had  ever 
been  before,  —  my  self-possession,  for  the  second  time 
since  I  first  trod  the  stage,  wholly  forsook  me.  I  think 
there  must  have  been  something  melting  and  overpower 
ing  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  particular  theatre  ;  for  it 
was  upon  that  stage,  five  years  before,  when  I  appeared 
for  the  last  time  previous  to  our  sailing  for  Europe,  that  I 
was  overcome  by  a  similar  ungovernable  emotion.  And 
those  are  the  only  two  instances  of  irrepressible  agita 
tion  in  my  eight  years  of  professional  experience.  I 
was  heartily  vexed  with  myself;  but  I  suppose  there 


410       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

are  moments  in  the  lives  of  every  one  when  the  barrier 
of  self-control  is  broken  through  by  genuine  feeling. 

Mr.  Wiseman  Marshall  *  personated  Ingomar.  Dur 
ing  my  previous  engagements  he  had  rendered  the 
character  very  popular  with  the  Boston  audience.  I 
had  enacted  Parthenia  a  great  number  of  nights ;  but  I 
believe  the  play's  repetition  awoke  no  dissenting  voice. 

In  the  second  act  Parthenia  weaves  a  garland  while 
she  prattles  to  the  savage,  who  is  becoming  humanized 
and  Parthenia-ized  as  he  watches  her.  The  flowers  on 
that  evening  were  natural  ones,  abundantly  supplied ; 
and  I  wove  a  garland  of  some  length,  which  was 
sent  to  a  beloved  friend  whose  illness  prevented  her 
being  present. 

After  the  benefit,  I  was  induced  to  fulfil  another  en 
gagement  at  the  Howard  Athenasum  of  a  fortnight's 
duration. 

My  next  appearance  was  in  Cincinnati.  I  then  acted 
several  weeks  in  Louisville.  That  city  is  always  asso 
ciated  in  my  mind  with  Henry  Clay.  It  was  there  that 
I  bade  him  adieu  for  the  last  time.  And  now,  when  I 
visited  Louisville  again,  the  bells  were  tolling  from  every 
steeple,  the  streets  were  draperied  with  black ;  for  Henry 
Clay's  funeral  was  passing ;  his  mortal  remains  were  on 
their  way  to  their  Ashland  resting-place.  We  were  re 
siding  at  the  Louisville  Hotel.  Our  drawing-room  win 
dow  fronted  the  street.  Heavy  folds  of  unrelieved  sable 
were  stretched  story  after  story  from  every  window  but 
one,  and  that  one  was  ours.  There  \ve  hung  festoons 
of  white  drapery,  intermingled  with  violet  bouquets,  and 
a  garland  of  white  and  purple  violets,  and  ribbons  of 

*  Mr.  Marshall  was  at  this  period  the  manager  of  the  Athenaeum. 


EMBLEMATICAL  FUNERAL  DECORATIONS.   411 

violet,  of  black,  and  of  white.  The  whitely-decked 
window  shone  out  strangely  amidst  the  surrounding 
blackness  ;  and  many  who  knew  that  it  had  been  deco 
rated  by  one  who  loved  and  honored  Henry  Clay,  and 
had  been  to  him  an  object  of  openly  acknowledged  in 
terest,  asked  for  an  explanation.  With  our  snow-white 
emblems,  flower-mingled,  we  made  an  offering  to  his 
memory  as  to  that  of  one  who  was  still  living ;  not 
sleeping  an  unconscious  slumber  for  ages,  not  annihi 
lated,  not  separated  from  us  forever;  but  only  trans 
lated  to  a  sphere  of  higher  use  ;  only  shut  out  from  us 
by  a  translucent  gate  which  we,  too,  would  soon  enter : 
and  so  we  hung  our  windows,  not  with  the  blackness 
which  represents,  the  darkness  that  belongs  to,  the  grave, 
but  with  symbols  of  the  living  freshness,  gladness,  purity 
of  the  new  life ;  not  with  the  insignia  of  death,  but  the 
tokens  of  the  resurrection !  * 

The  ensuing  morning  the  Louisville  Journal  gave  an 
explanation  of  our  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Henry 
Clay. 

After  this  engagement,  which  ended  in  July,  I  re 
turned  east  to  rest  during  the  month  of  August.  My 
professional  labors  were  resumed  in  September. 

In  Buffalo  I  commenced  my  engagement  on  the 
opening  night  of  the  Metropolitan  Theatre,  newly  erect 
ed.  The  opening  of  a  theatre  is  always  a  period  of 
great  excitement.  The  gradual  completion  that  looks 
like  incompletion ;  the  apparent  impossibility,  even  at 
the  last  rehearsal,  of  accomplishing  all  that  remains  to 
be  done ;  the  jostling  activity  of  the  stage  carpenters , 
the  rapid  painting  of  the  scenic  artists  ;  the  perplexity 

*  The  black  ribbons  alone  indicated  the  passage  through  the 
grave. 


412  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    AN    ACTRESS. 

of  the  actors,  who  cannot  hear,  through  the  sound  of 
hammers,  their  own  voices  rehearsing  ;  the  flurry  of  the 
stage  manager ;  the  flitting  to  and  fro  of  the  architect ; 
the  wondering  of  all  how  the  new  temple  of  art,  await 
ing  its  consecration,  will  look  when  lighted  up  ;  the 
freshness,  the  bustle,  the  confusion,  —  form  a  com 
bination  of  stirring  elements  that  diffuse  themselves 
through  the  whole  theatre  in  the  day,  and,  at  night,  are 
communicated  to  the  audience. 

In  the  evening  the  throng  in  front  of  the  building 
became  so  dense  that  the  doors  of  the  theatre  had  to  be 
thrown  open  to  admit  them  while  the  scaffolding  was 
still  upon  the  stage.  The  audience  were  thus  made 
witnesses  of  a  most  painful  accident.  One  of  the  car 
penters,  in  attempting  to  execute  his  work  as  quickly 
as  possible,  fell  from  the  scaffolding,  and  was  seriously 
injured. 

The  curtain  rose  upon  the  members  of  the  company 
assembled  upon  the  stage.  Then  was  sung  the  national 
anthem  of  «  Hail,  Columbia !  " 

At  its  conclusion  I  entered  and  delivered  the  inaugu 
ral  address,  written  by  Anson  G.  Chester,  Esq.  The 
audience  responded  heartily  to  such  passages  as  the 
following :  — 

" To  its "  (the  Drama's)  "good usevfQ  henceforth  set  apart 
This  fair  creation  of  the  hand  of  Art. 
Within  these  walls  shall  Virtue  ever  rule  ; 
This  be  her  throne,  her  altar,  and  her  school ! 
Here  will  we  seek  her  precepts  to  defend, 
And,  while  we  please,  will  elevate  and  mend ; 
So  shall  the  Drama's  first  intentions  find 
A  fit  translation  to  the  modern  mind." 

Almost  every  one  of  the  above  lines  was  interrupted 
by  an  emphatic  burst  of  applause ;  distinctly  showing 


STAGE   FRIGHT    OF   AN    ARCHITECT.  413 

what  class  of  performances  the  public  were  prepared  to 
patronize. 

After  the  opening  address  rose  a  loud  demand  for 
Mr.  T e,  the  architect  of  the  theatre,  to  whose  tal 
ents  and  skill  several  edifices  in  New  York  bear  witness. 
He  certainly  had  erected  a  theatre  in  admirable  taste, 
and  deserved  public  thanks.  The  worthy  architect  had 
been  apprised  that  he  must  acknowledge  the  kindness  of 
the  audience  by  a  few  appropriate  words  —  a  necessity 
which  caused  him  great  alarm.  His  mind  had  been 
kept  on  the  stretch  for  many  days  and  nights  in  super 
intending  the  completion  of  the  theatre.  He  had  ob 
tained  no  rest,  and  was  now  thoroughly  worn  out  with 
excitement  and  fatigue.  After  a  protracted  and  clamor 
ous  summons  the  curtain  drew  back  ;  Mr.  T e  trem 
blingly  appeared,  took  a  couple  of  steps  upon  the  stage, 
made  several  nervous  attempts  to  execute  a  bow,  fal 
tered  out,  "  Gen-tle-men  —  and  —  la-a-dies,;'  staggered 
back,  two  steps  taking  him  out  of  sight,  and,  panic- 
stricken,  fainted  away ! 

I  was  completing  my  toilet  for  the  play,  and,  hearing 
the  sudden  cessation  of  applause  from  the  audience  and 
a  confusion  behind  the  scenes,  I  feared  some  new  acci 
dent  had  occurred.  As  soon  as  I  was  dressed  I  hastened 
to  inquire,  and  received  the  above  relation  from  the 
stage  manager,  Mr.  Smith. 

The  accomplished  but  timid  architect  was  joked  un 
mercifully  about  his  attack  of  stage  fright.  Some  of  his 
friends  declared  that  he  only  fainted  because  he  had 
accidentally  said,  "  Gentlemen  and  ladies"  instead  of 
giving  precedence  to  the  latter,  and  terror  at  the  remem 
brance  of  u  woman's  rights,"  thus  rudely  infringed,  had 
overpowered  him. 


414      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

After  this  I  fulfilled  an  engagement  in  Syracuse.  In 
passing  through  Boston  I  acted  one  night,  and  engaged 
to  retarn  with  the  new  year.  My  next  engagement 
was  in  Philadelphia ;  but  a  severe  attack  of  bronchitis 
rendered  its  fulfilment  impossible. 

The  disease  seemed  singularly  prevalent  in  all  thea 
tres  during  that  season.  I  several  times  assisted  at 
rehearsals  where  three  or  four  of  the  actors  were  so 
seriously  affected  that  they  could  not  venture  to  use  their 
voices  in  the  morning.  The  little  power  left  was  re 
served  for  night.  At  rehearsal  they  went  through  the 
action  of  the  play  in  dumb  show,  standing,  sitting,  kneel 
ing,  pacing  the  stage,  crossing  from  right  to  left,  or  left 
to  right,  as  the  business  of  the  scene  demanded,  but  in 
perfect  silence,  while  the  prompter  read  aloud  the  words 
of  their  parts.  It  reminded  me  of  the  ludicrous  game 
of  "  dumb  orator." 

My  next  engagement,  commencing  in  November,  was 
to  take  place  at  the  Broadway  Theatre.  My  home  in 
New  York  was  at  the  residence  of  my  brother-in-law, 

Dr.  T r.  The  bronchial  affection  from  which  I  was 

suffering  had  been  very  much  relieved  by  his  medical 
skill,  and  I  was  able  to  meet  my  engagement  at  the  time 
appointed.  I  opened  in  Parthenia,  and  that  night  used 
my  voice  with  tolerable  facility ;  but  the  next,  while  I 
was  enacting  Rosalind,  the  power  of  speech  left  me 
entirely.  At  its  forceful  return,  through  my  strong 
volition,  it  seemed  as  though  somebody  else's  voice  had 
been  mysteriously  substituted  for  mine.  The  engage 
ment  thus  became  an  exceedingly  painful  one.  I  was 
urged  to  complete  it,  if  possible.  How  I  was  enabled  to 
do  so  appears  a  matter  of  wonder.  All  that  medical 
science  could  effect  for  me  was  constantly  counteracted 


THE   FLORAL    STAR.  415 

by  my  nightly  exertions.  On  some  evenings  the  utter 
ance  of  every  sentence  was  a  separate  misery.  I  heart 
ily  rejoiced  when  the  engagement  came  to  a  close. 

In  December  I  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  appear 
in  Baltimore.  A  singular  presentation  was  made  to  me 
during  this  engagement,  on  my  benefit  night  —  that  of  a 
young  fawn,  garlanded  with  flowers.  It  was  a  testi 
monial  from  the  Fireman's  Library  Association.  The 
fawn  was  first  taken  to  my  dressing  room,  and  then 
brought  upon  the  stage  during  the  comedy  of  the  Honey 
Moon.  Lopez  delivered  it  to  Juliana  in  the  cottage 
scene.  My  new  pet  followed  me  about  and  played  his 
part  to  perfection.  When  the  Duke  and  Lopez  were 
conversing,  I  seated  myself  upon  a  footstool  beside  the 
table,  and  the  gentle  fawn  ate  out  of  my  hand,  varying 
the  feast  by  munching  my  curls,  greatly  to  the  amuse 
ment  of  the  audience.  This  by-play  did  not  interrupt 
the  dialogue  between  the  Duke  and  countryman,  who 
occupied  the  front  of  the  stage. 

On  the  same  evening  was  presented  to  me  (I  believe 
from  the  same  source)  the  most  exquisite  floral  offering 
that  I  ever  received.  It  was  a  star,  about  a  foot  and  a 
half  or  two  feet  in  height  and  in  breadth,  composed  of 
double  camelias  of  various  hues,  the  white  predomi 
nating.  Both  sides  of  the  star-bouquet  were  alike,  and 
the  framework  on  which  it  was  composed  was  rendered 
invisible  by  thickly  clustering  flowers.  It  was  handed 
from  the  boxes  to  A.  W.  Fenno,  Esq.,  (who  supported 
me  during  the  engagement,)  and  placed  by  him  in  my 
arms.  The  rare  beauty  and  delicacy  of  the  gift  gave 
me  much  pleasure  ;  but  I  was  especially  charmed  that 
the  flowers  had  been  woven  into  the  form  of  one  of  the 
chief  emblems  of  that  country  whose  daughter  I  was 
proud  to  be  called. 


416       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

I  returned  to  Boston,  according  to  promise,  in  Janu 
ary,  and  acted  several  weeks.  My  voice  had  slightly 
improved.  At  times,  I  could  use  it  without  difficulty  ; 
but  the  least  nervousness  or  anxiety  was  the  signal  for 
the  departure  of  every  smoother  tone. 

My  southern  tour  was  now  to  commence.  In  Wash 
ington  I  appeared  for  the  first  time,  reengaging  twice. 
I  next  performed  in  Richmond,  and  then  proceeded  to 
Mobile.  It  was  my  first  visit  to  that  city  since  my 
return  from  Europe.  I  had  abundant  and  most  flatter 
ing  cause  to  believe  that  I  had  not  been  forgotten.  I 
rank  that  engagement  amongst  those  which  I  shall  ever 
look  back  upon  with  truest  pleasure. 

In  New  Orleans  we  had  violent  storms  of  rain  through 
the  larger  half  of  the  engagement.  The  climate  had  an 
injurious  effect  upon  my  health,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  I  struggled  through  the  stipulated  number  of  per 
formances.  Armand  was  produced  here  as  in  every 
other  city  in  which  I  had  performed.  Fashion  was  also 
enacted  at  the  St.  Charles  Theatre,  and  repeated  several 
nights,  drawing  larger  houses  than  any  other  play.  The 
comedy  was  exceedingly  well  acted.  The  Adam  True- 
man  of  Mr.  Lynn  won  him  high  and  deserved  encomi 
ums.  The  Snobson  of  Mr.  De  Bar  more  than  once 
overcame  my  gravity  of  countenance.  I  was  content 
to  enact  Gertrude,  as  the  character  obviated  all  neces 
sity  for  exertion  —  exertion  which  I  was  nightly  be 
coming  more  unable  to  make. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


Departure  from  New  Orleans.  —  Memphis.  —  The  Promise  to  Henry 
Clay  fulfilled.  —  First  Appearance.  —  Actors1  habitual  Disregard 
of  physical  Ailments. — Instance  in  London.  —  Anecdote  of  Mrs. 
Glover's  last  Night.  —  My  second  Appearance  in  Memphis.  — 
Struggle  with  Indisposition.  —  Unavoidable  Internqrtion  of  Play.  — 
Malaria. — Journey  eastward. — Acting  for  Mrs.  Warner's  com 
plimentary  Benefit.  —  Summer  Intentions  frustrated.  —  Serious  and 
protracted  Illness.  —  Removal  to  Ravensicood.  —  My  Father'* 

House. —  The  distinguished  Dr.  M it.  — Life's  Movement  in  a 

sick  Chamber.  —  Summer.  —  Autumn.  —  Winter's  Approach.  — 
The  Pine  Trees.  —  Sunsets.  —  Musings.  —  Cheerful  Visitants  to 
the  little  Chamber.  —  A  Child's  Tribute  to  a  Father.  —  Antici 
pated  Recovery.  — Proposed  Farewell  of  the  -Stage.— Ansicer  to  a 
Question  often  asked.  —  Aristocratic  Affectation  amongst  the  Pro 
fession. —  Passion  for  the  Stage.  —  A  few  Words  of  Warning  to 
the  young  Aspirant  for  dramatic  Honors. 

WE  left  New  Orleans  about  the  middle  of  March, 
1853,  in  the  queenly  Magnolia.  The  young  nephew 
Stanislas,  whom  I  mentioned  in  the  preceding  chapter, 
was  again  my  gallant  escort.  In  four  days  we  reached 
Memphis.  Six  years  before  I  had  promised  Henry 
Clay  not  to  pass  that  citv  again  without  appearing  there 
in  my  professional  capacity.  I  had  never  travelled  on 
the  southern  portion  of  the  Mississippi  Eiver  since  the 
spring  when  we  spent  those  pleasant  days  with  our  dis 
tinguished  countryman,  on  board  of  the  Alexander  Scott. 
We  arrived  in  Memphis  on  Sunday  morning.  The 
next  evening  I  made  my  debut  in  Parthenia.  I  had 
been  ill  during  my  whole  stay  in  New  Orleans,  and  was 
27  (417) 


418  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OP   AN   ACTRESS. 

now  making  a  desperate  struggle  with  indisposition.  I 
found  the  audience  particularly  inspiring  —  the  engage 
ment  promised  to  be  brilliant  in  the  extreme.  As  the 
curtain  fell  upon  each  act  of  Ingomar,  I  found  it  more 
and  more  difficult  to  proceed ;  but  I  knew  from  expe 
rience  that  a  strongly  concentrated  will  could  master  the 
infirmities  of  an  exhausted  physique.  I  invoked  to  my 
aid  all  the  mental  energy  that  could  obey  the  summons, 
and  ended  the  play  successfully. 

The  next  night  I  was  announced  to  appear  as  Mrs. 
Haller.  If  I  had  been  governed  by  common  prudence, 
— I  had  almost  written  common  sense,  —  I  should  not 
have  attempted  the  performance.  But  long  habit,  and 
the  example  of  others,  had  accustomed  me  to  make 
light  of  physical  ailments  when  they  interfered  with 
professional  duty.  I  had  seen  many  an  actor  walk  ma 
jestically  upon  the  stage  and  play  a  part  with  thrilling 
effect,  who,  the  instant  he  was  without  the  range  of  the 
footlights,  sank  down,  unable  to  speak  or  to  stand,  from 
the  excess  of  acute  suffering.  I  have  often  seen  actors 
fall  into  long  fits  of  swooning,  and,  on  recovering,  be 
forced  to  return  to  the  stage  and  continue  their  imbodi- 
ments.  I  remember  one  occasion  in  England  when  an 
actor,  who  was  personating  my  father,  drew  down  the 
displeasure  of  an  audience  Ly  his  feeble  and  uncertain 
delivery  of  the  text.  How  little  they  suspected  that 
he  was  dying  at  that  very  moment !  Three  days  after 
wards  he  had  departed  this  life. 

Mrs.  Glover's  last  night  in  London  *  is  an  instance 
of  the  indomitable  energy  that  characterizes  the  votary 
of  the  stage  in  his  conflict  with  external  circumstances. 

*  I  was  in  England  at  the  time.  The  above  description  was  given 
me  by  a  friend  who  was  present  at  Mrs.  Glover's  farewell. 


STRUGGLE    WITH    INDISPOSITION.  419 

She  rose  from  an  illness  which  her  physician  had  pro 
nounced  fatal,  to  enact  Mrs.  Malaprop  (in  the  comedy 
of  the  Rivals)  on  the  occasion  of  her  farewell  of  the 
stage.  The  instant  the  performance  was  over,  her 
temporary  strength  evaporated.  She  was  incapable  of 
answering  the  summons  of  the  audience  —  of  crossing 
the  stage  before  the  footlights  and  courtesying  her 
acknowledgments.  At  their  clamorous  demand  to  be 
hold  her  once  more,  she  was  placed  in  an  arm  chair  in 
the  centre  of  the  stage,  surrounded  and  supported  by  a 
galaxy  of  distinguished  performers,  who  had  congre 
gated  in  honor  of  her  farewell.  The  curtain  rose  — 
she  feebly  bowed  her  thanks,  her  adieu  —  smiled  upon 
the  bouquets  that  fell  in  a  floral  deluge  around  her  — 
the  curtain  descended  upon  her  last  triumph.  She  was 
taken  home,  and  in  two  days  breathed  her  last. 

A  host  of  similar  instances  might  be  given  to  illus 
trate  how  difficult  it  is  for  an  actor  to  admit  the  possi 
bility  of  his  physical  condition  interfering  with  the  dis 
charge  of  his  public  duty..  It  was  an  impression  of  this 
kind,  deeply  stamped  upon  my  mind,  that  lured  me  to 
commit  the  indiscretion  of  endeavoring  to  perform  on 
my  second  night  in  Memphis. 

Mrs.  Haller  has  but  a  few  words  to  speak  in  the  first 
act ;  and  those  I  managed  to  utter,  though  with  difficulty, 
for  a  fresh  attack  of  bronchitis  was  added  to  incipient 
malaria.  In  the  second  act  I  had  scarcely  entered  upon 
the  stage  before  I  began  to  be  aware  that  I  had  miscal 
culated  my  powers.  The  third  time  I  attempted  to 
speak  I  found  my  voice  had  entirely  departed.  Again 
and  again  I  tried  to  force  out  a  sound — but  my  lips 

opened  and  closed  again  noiselessly.  Dr.  S h,  who 

afterwards  attended  me,  used  to  say  that  he  never 


420       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

witnessed  an  exhibition  at  once  so  comical  and  so  painful. 
The  lips  moving  without  producing  the  faintest  articu 
lation  —  the  look  of  consternation  quickly  followed  by 
an  expression  of  resolution  not  to  be  vanquished  —  the 
impotent  battle  with  the  inevitable. 

But  I  was  conquered — I  could  not  speak,  and  I 
could  not  have  maintained  an  erect  position  much  longer. 
The  considerate  manager,  Mr.  Charles,  who  occupied 
the  stage  with  me,  instantly  apologized  to  the  audience, 
and  the  curtain  fell. 

For  nine  days  I  remained  dangerously  ill.  Dr. 

S h  advised  that  I  should  be  removed  the  instant 

that  I  could  bear  the  journey.  He  gave  it  as  his  med 
ical  opinion  that,  although  it  was  hardly  possible  for  me 
to  rally  in  that  atmosphere,  I  would  rapidly  recover 
when  I  once  reached  the  other  side  of  the  mountains. 
We  left  Memphis  on  the  twelfth  day  of  our  sojourn 
there,  and,  travelling  slowly,  arrived  at  my  sister's  resi 
dence,  in  Philadelphia,  in  ten  days  more.  As  Dr. 

S h  predicted,  I  began  to  revive  as  soon  as  we 

passed  the  mountains,  and  was  soon  convalescent. 

At  this  period  Mrs.  Warner  was  about  to  leave 
America,  where  she  had  encountered  a  series  of  most 
heartbreaking  trials.  The  autumn  previous  I  had 
promised  her  my  services  for  a  benefit,  at  any  time 
when  she  chose  to  call  upon  me.  I  thus  hoped  to  make 
amends,  in  a  slight  degree,  for  the  losses  and  discom 
fitures  which  had  waylaid  her  whole  path  in  a  foreign 
land.  She  was  now  just  recovering  from  a  dangerous 
illness  —  or  rather,  was  supposed  to  be  recovering. 
Late  tidings  bring  the  sad  intelligence  of  a  relapse,  which 
it  is  feared  may  prove  fatal.  She  was  to  receive  a 
complimentary  benefit  at  the  Howard  Athena3um,  in 


PROTRACTED    ILLXESS.  421 

Boston,  and  requested  the  fulfilment  of  my  promise.  I 
consented  to  enact  Desdernona  to  her  Emelia,  and  went 
to  Boston  for  that  purpose  about  the  middle  of  May. 
On  the  morning  of  the  benefit  Mrs.  Warner  was  still 
unable  to  leave  her  apartment.  The  benefit,  however, 
took  place,  and  a  thronged  attendance  proved  the  high 
estimation  in  which  she  was  held  by  an  American 
public.  Mrs.  M.  Jones  filled  the  role  of  Emelia  in 
Mrs.  "Warner's  stead.  I  represented  Desdemona  — 
Mr.  Marshall  Othello.  I  once  more  used  my  voice 
with  great  facility;  but  the  exertion  consequent  even 
upon  so  unarduous  a  performance  made  me  conscious 
of  unusual  deficiency  of  strength  and  elasticity. 

I  had  arranged  to  make  an  extensive  western  tour 
during  this  summer,  which  was  to  be  my  last  upon  the 
stage.  But 

"  L'hoTnme  propose,  Dieu  dispose." 

I  had  never  recovered  entirely  from  my  attack  in 
Memphis.  Early  in  June  I  was  again  taken  seriously 
ill.  After  six  weeks  of  suffering,  which  surpassed  in 
severity  all  my  previous  experiences  of  what  mortality 
can  endure,  my  father  insisted  that  I  should  be  brought 
to  his  residence  at  Ravenswood  and  placed  under  the 

care  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  M tt,  whose  eminence  as 

surgeon  and  physician  has  been  recognized  in  both 
hemispheres,  and  has  even  rendered  him  famous  on 
olden,  classic  ground.* 

I  had  lost  all  power  of  locomotion,  and  was  thoroughly 
helpless.  But  I  had  made  not  a  few  journeys  before 
on  temporary  beds,  placed  in  railway  cars  and  in  car- 

*  See  Mott's  Travels  in  Europe  and  the  East. 


422       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

riages,  and  was  now  forced  to  this  sad  necessity  again. 
(I  must  say  that  I  greatly  preferred  my  seat  of  hay  in 
the  corner  of  the  old  ox  cart,  which  jolted  us  over  the 
frozen  wilds  of  Indiana.)  My  faithful  sister  May,  a.t 
whose  house  in  Boston  I  had  been  residing,  accompanied 
me.  We  reached  our  father's  dwelling  in  safety,  and  L 
was  borne  to  the  sunny,  white-curtained  chamber,  where 
I  am  now  reclining. 

Month  after  month  has  glided  away,  —  the  flower- 
scented  Summer  has  buried  her  perfumes  and  flown, — 
the  crimson-fingered  Autumn  has  trampled  her  tinted 
foliage  under  foot  and  departed,  —  Winter  is  beginning 
to  show  his  hard-featured  and  frostbitten  face,  and  finds 
this  little  chamber  still  my  compulsory  abiding-place. 
There  have  been  no  flower  gatherings,  no  garden 
ramblings,  for  me  since  June.  Day  after  day  I  have 
looked  out  with  longing  eyes  upon  the  gardens  beneath 
my  window,  and  watched  the  flowers,  that  enamelled  the 
fair  earth,  one  by  one  pale  on  their  stems  —  wither  and 
disappear.  The  last  dahlia  has  just  dropped  its  head 
and  died.  There  are  a  cluster  of  pine  trees  that  look 
in  at  one  of  my  windows,  and  I  have  found  daily 
delight  —  I  might  say  actual  comfort  —  in  gazing  at 
their  emerald  beauty.  I  know  every  branch,  every 
little  twig,  almost  every  bird,  which,  through  the 
summer,  has  sat  in  the  boughs  and  made  vocal  the  air 
with  his  matin  songs.  The  wind  plays  through  those 
pine-tree  branches,  as  on  an  instrument,  with  a  muffled, 
musical  sound,  like  that  of  a  human  voice,  called  by 
singers  a  "veiled  voice."  I  have  never  heard  wind 
sighing,  through  any  other  trees,  produce  the  same 
hushed,  murmuring  melody.  And  what  gloriously 
golden  sunsets  I  have  beheld  through  those  pine-tree 


LIFE'S    MOVEMENT    IN    THE    SICK    CHAMBER.       423 

branches,  as  I  lay  looking  out  at  the  sky !  what  soft 
moonlight  shinings!  what  brilliant  starlight  gleam- 
ings  !  One  of  my  chief  amusements  is  watching  the 
setting  sun,  that  at  each  departure  assumes  some  fare 
well  robe  of  varied  splendor.  And  sometimes  I  muse 
upon  a  life's  early  dawn  that  broke,  flooding  the  horizon 
with  radiance ;  upon  the  storms  that  gathered  before 
morning  had  passed ;  upon  clouds  that  parted  at  noon 
day,  to  let  through  an  unlooked-for  effulgence  ;  and  as 
I  dreamily  gaze  at  the  sun,  going  down  in  mellow  glory, 
I  think  of  a  sunset  of  peace  that  may  be  given  for  such 
a  life's  closing. 

I  lift  my  eyes,  and  they  fall  upon  the  pine  trees 
again.  But  now  the  rich  green  of  their  plumy  foliage 
is  taking  a  rusty  hue ;  for  Winter,  as  he  strides  on  with 
ice-shod  feet,  has  breathed  upon  them  coldly.  The 
clustering  cones  that  brownly  spangled  the  boughs  have 
ripened ;  and  the  wind  is  shaking  them  to  the  ground, 
like  hopes  that  fall  to  plant  the  seed  of  new  hopes.  I 
shall  see  the  snow  enshroud  the  pine-tree  branches,  and 
be  still  a  prisoner.  Yet,  even  in  a  sick  chamber,  the 
slow  movement  of  life  may  be  calm  and  glad.  Patience 
may  pour  upon  the  spirit  her  medicinal  balm.  Hope 
may  sit  enthroned  in  the  heart,  shining  with  steadfast 
lustre.  Memory,  unfolding  her  tablets,  may  point  to 
some  bright  and  consoling  records.  The  voices  of 
tenderness  may  fall  in  music  on  the  pain-quickened  ear. 
The  holy  ties  of  kinship,  the  adamantine  chains  of 
friendship,  may  be  drawn  closer  than  ever.  Let  my 
future  be  cast  where  it  may,  I  must  perforce  look 
back  with  loving  remembrance  upon  the  pleasant  little 
chamber  beneath  my  father's  roof,  where,  if  I  have  suf 
fered  much,  I  have  rejoiced  more. 


424      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  ten  sisters  have  never  again  been  gathered  in 
the  paternal  home ;  but  each  one  not  separated  by  the 
ocean  has  come,  in  turn,  to  shed  her  sweet  influence 
around  the  couch  of  the  invalid  —  some  to  spend  but  days, 
some  weeks,  and  some  months.  And  the  tender  second 
mother  has  flitted  in  and  out  each  day,  drawing  the 
sunshine  after  her,  and  performing  thoughtful  offices  of 
love ;  and  the  young  sisters,  whose  home  I  now  share, 
have  gladdened  the  room  with  their  blooming  presence, 
their  prattling  tongues  ;  and  the  faithful  attendant,  who 
has  journeyed  with  me  by  land  and  by  sea,  has  proved 
as  devoted  and  as  patient  by  the  couch  of  sickness  as  she 
was  cheerful  and  intrepid  in  our  far-off  wanderings. 

And  last,  though  ever  first,  shall  I  not  reverently 
speak  of  your  precious  visits  to  the  cheerful  chamber, 
my  father  ?  Shall  I  say  no  word  of  you,  who,  through 
the  varied  vicissitudes  of  my  life,  sustained  and  encour 
aged  me  in  all  my  strenuous  exertions  —  you,  who  con 
soled  me  under  all  my  hard  trials  —  you,  whose  own 
unconquerable  energy  has  taught  me  how  to  battle  with 
life's  ills  —  whose  example  of  smiling  fortitude  has  shown 
me  how  to  be  victorious  over  inflexible  circumstance  — 
whose  recognition  of  divine  Providence,  even  in  things 
most  minute,  has  strengthened  my  faith  —  whose  daily 
acts  have  given  to  your  precepts  double  weight  —  you, 
who  forgot  the  shortcomings  of  my  wayward  girlhood, 
and  opened  your  arms,  your  heart,  to  me  without  breath 
ing  one  reproach  ?  May  I  not  record  these  things  of 
you,  and  say,  that  to  you  I  owe  the  possession  of  some 
of  those  qualities  which  have  rendered  your  own 
struggles  in  life  blessed  —  which  have  made  manifest  the 
softening  uses  of  sorrow  ?  Surely  this  is  a  tribute  which 
a  child  may  pay  to  a  father,  even  in  the  world's  full 


PROPOSED    FAREWELL    OF   THE    STAGE.          425 

hearing.  I  do  not  attempt  to  restrain  the  outgushing 
of  my  spirit  when  I  speak  of  you.  My  memoirs  would 
neither  be  truthful  nor  complete  if  they  contained  no 
chronicle  such  as  I  have  written  above. 

Two  thirds  of  those  memoirs  have  been  penned  in 
the  quiet  little  chamber  I  have  described  —  penned 
during  intervals  from  suffering  and  a  period  of  slow 
convalescence. 

When  I  fully  recover  my  health,  (as  the  distinguished 
physician  mentioned  above,  who  has  expended  his  skill 
upon  me  for  nearly  five  months,  is  confident  I  shall  do,) 
I  purpose  taking  a  brief  farewell  of  my  profession  in 
some  of  the  principal  cities  of  the  Union.  I  desire  to 
leave  that  profession  as  calmly  and  as  deliberately  as  it 
was  entered;  for  I  shall  bid  it  adieu  with  those  objects, 
imperiously  summoned  by  which  I  first  bore  the  name 
of  actress,  happily  accomplished. 

I  will  here  answer  a  question  in  relation  to  the  stage 
which  I  am  frequently  asked.  There  are  some  who 
may  be  profited  by  the  reply.  "  Are  you  fond  of  the 
stage  ?  "  has  been  the  inquiry  put  by  many  lips  during 
the  last  eight  years.  There  is  a  species  of  aristocratic 
affectation  existing  amongst  the  members  of  the  pro 
fession,  which  induces  many  of  them  to  declare  that  they 
detest  their  own  vocation  —  that  they  dislike  nothing  so 
much  as  acting,  &c.  I  have  heard  this  assertion  again 
and  again  from  the  mouths  of  the  most  successful  per 
formers  ;  and  all  affectation  seems  to  me  so  inconsistent 
with  true  talent  that  I  could  not  but  listen  in  wonder. 
But,  as  I  have  said,  to  declare  that  the  stage  is  distaste 
ful,  is  looked  upon  as  a  sign  of  professional  aristocracy. 
For  my  own  part,  I  answer  frankly,  I  have  received 
intense  delight  from  the  personation  of  some  characters. 


426      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

The  power  of  swaying  the  emotions  of  a  crowd  is  one 
of  the  most  thrilling  sensations  that  I  ever  experienced. 
Yet  J  have  not  found  in  the  profession  the  kind  of 
absorbing  fascination  which  I  have  often  heard  described 
as  inseparable  from  the  stage.  There  were  too  many 
incongruous  elements  mingled  with  every  dramatic  tri 
umph  for  the  charm,  if  any,  to  be  complete.  Without 
looking  upon  the  theatre  as  a  Circean  bower,  without 
entertaining  a  passion  for  the  stage,  I  have  a  quiet  love 
for  the  drama,  which,  Heaven  forbid,  with  my  convic 
tions  in  regard  to  its  use,  I  should  ever  shrink  from 
acknowledging.  Without  some  decided  attachment  for 
the  profession,  I  cannot  conceive  how  the  fatigues, 
the.  vexations,  the  disappointments  incident  even  upon 
the  most  successful  theatrical  career,  could  be  sup 
ported. 

Let  me  here  venture  to  warn  any  enthusiastic  young 
aspirant  against  adopting  the  stage,  unless  her  qualifica 
tions —  not  to  use  a  much  abused  word,  and  say  her 
mission  —  seem  particularly  to  fit  her  for  such  a  voca 
tion,  unless  she  be  strongly  impelled  by  the  possession 
of  talents  which  are  unquestionable,  unless  she  be  en 
amoured  of  Art  itself.  But  that  the  dangers  of  the  pro 
fession  are  such  as  they  are  generally  accredited  to  be, 
I  do  not  believe ;  for  I  have  known  too  many  women 
bred  upon  the  stage,  whose  lives  were  so  blamelessly 
exemplary,  whose  manners  so  refined,  whose  intellect 
so  cultivated,  that  they  would  adorn  any  sphere  of 
society.  The  subject  is  not  one  into  which  I  can  fully 
enter ;  but  this  let  me  say,  that  the  woman  who  could 
be  dazzled  by  the  adulation  bestowed  upon  her  talents 
as  an  actress,  would  be  dazzled  and  led  astray  in  the 
blaze  of  a  ball  room,  in  the  excitement  of  social  inter- 


WORDS    OF    WARNING   TO    YOUNG   ASPIRANTS.     427 

course,  in  any  situation  where  those  talents  could  be 
displayed,  in  any  position  where  she  could  hear 

"  The  false  glozings  of  a  flattering  tongue." 

And  from  these  where  will  she  be  shielded,  except  in 
utter  seclusion? 

But  to  return  to  the  subject  from  which  I  wandered. 
Unless  the  actress  in  anticipation  is  willing  to  encounter 
disappointment  in  myriad  unlooked-for  shapes ;  to  study 
incessantly,  and  find  that  her  closest  study  is  insufficient ; 
to  endure  an  amount  and  kind  of  fatigue  which  she  never 
dreamed  of  before;  if  she  feel  "the  grasshopper  a 
burden,"  and  the  "crumpled  rose  leaf"  an  inconven 
ience  to  her  slumber,  I  would  bid  her  shun  the  stage. 
But  if  she  be  prepared  to  meet  petty  as  well  as  formi 
dable  trials,  (the  former  are  often  more  difficult  to  bear 
than  the  latter;)  if  she  be  sustained  by  some  high 
purpose,  some  strong  incentive ;  if  she  act  in  obedience 
to  the  dictates  of  the  "  stern  lawgiver,  Duty,"  —  then 
let  her  enter  the  profession  boldly ;  by  gracing,  help  to 
elevate  the  stage ;  and  add  hers  to  the  purifying  influ 
ences  which  may  dwell  within  the  walls  of  a  theatre  as 
securely  as  in  any  other  temple  of  art.  Let  her  bear 
in  mind  that  the  sometimes  degraded  name  of  "actress" 
can  be  dignified  in  her  own  person.  Let  her  feel,  above 
all  things,  that  the  actress  must  excite  reverence  as  well 
as  admiration.  The  crowd  must  honor  as  well  as  wor 
ship.  They  can  always  be  made  to  do  the  latter  at 
the  feet  of  genius ;  they  can  only  be  compelled  to  do 
the  former  when  genius  sheds  its  halo  around  higher 
attributes. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

My  Claims  to  offer  a  Defence  of  the  Stage.  —  Lord  Bacon  on  the 
Drama. —  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  —  D' Israeli.  —  The  rude  Attempts 
of  Thespis.  —  JEschylus.  —  Existence  of  Theatres  at  the  Time  of 
the  first  Christian  Era.  —  The  Apostles.  —  St.  Paul's  Quotations 
from  three  dramatic  Poets.  —  The  Parables  and  the  Drama.  — 
Dr.  Isaac  Watts.  —  The  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius  upon  the  Stage. 
—  Martin  Luther.  —  The  Rev.  Dr.  Knox.  —  Philip  Melancthon.  — 
Lord  Bacon.  — Dr.  Blair.  —  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  —  Dr.  Gregory.  — 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  —  Calcraft.  —  Art.  —  Use  and  Abuse.  —  With 
whom  it  lies  to  reform  the  Errors  of  the  Stage.  — Two  Hundred 
clerical  dramatic  Authors.  —  Dramas  of  the  Archbishop  Gregory 
Nazianzen;  of  Apollinaris,  Bishop  of  Laodicea.  —  Sir  Thomas 
More. —  Tragedies  of  Milton,  of  Dr.  Edward  Young,  ofEev.  H. 
Milman,  Rev.  Dr.  Croly,  Addison,  Dr.  Johnson,  Coleridge,  Thom 
son,  Goldsmith,  Miss  Hannah  More,  Miss  Joanna  Baillie,  Miss 
Mitford.  —  The  Stage:  Pope's  Exposition  of  its  Use;  Crabbe's 
ditto  ;  Shakspeare's.  —  My  own  Experience.  —  The  true  Position 
of  Actors.  —  Their  Rank  in  ancient  Times.  —  The  high  social  Po 
sition  held  by  many  Actors  in  the  present  Time.  —  A  Word  of 
Farewell  to  the  Members  of  the  Profession.  —  These  Memoirs. 

I  HAVE  been  for  eight  years  an  actress.  In  the  ex 
ercise  of  my  vocation  I  have  visited  many  theatres 
throughout  this  land  and  in  Great  Britain.  This  fact, 
perhaps,  gives  me  some  right  to  speak  upon  the  stage 
as  an  institution ;  upon  its  uses  and  abuses ;  for  I  speak 
(in  all  humility  be  it  said)  from  actual  knowledge  and 
personal  experience.  My  testimony  has,  at  least,  the 
value  of  being  disinterested ;  for  I  was  not  bred  to  the 
stage ;  I  entered  upon  it  from  the  bosom  of  private  life ; 
none  who  are  linked  to  me  by  affinity  of  blood  ever 

(428) 


THE    STAGE.  429 

belonged  to  the  profession ;  I  am  about  to  leave  it  of 
my  own  choice  ;  and  I  bid  it  farewell  in  the  midst  of  a 
career  which,  if  it  has  reached  its  meridian,  has  not,  as 
yet,  taken  the  first  downward  inclination.  I  can  have 
no  object  in  defending  the  drama  apart  from  the  impulse 
to  utter  what  I  believe  to  be  truth  and  an  innate  love 
and  reverence  for  dramatic  art. 

The  stage  is  not  an  insignificant  pastime.  History 
teaches  us  that  it  is  an  institution  which  has  existed 
almost  from  time  immemorial ;  protected  by  the  laws  ; 
consecrated  by  the  dramatic  teachings  of  divines  and 
sages ;  and  accepted  as  a  mode  of  instruction,  as  well  as 
of  diversion,  in  almost  all  lands.  It  is  a  school  most 
important  in  its  operations,  most  potent  in  its  admo 
nitions,  most  profusely -productive  of  good  or  evil  in 
fluences.  The  actor  sways  the  multitude  even  as  the 
preacher  and  the  orator,  often  more  powerfully  than 
either.  He  arouses  their  slumbering  energies ;  elevates 
their  minds ;  calls  forth  their  loftiest  aspirations ;  ex 
cites  their  purest  emotions ;  or,  if  he  be  false  to  his 
trust,  a  perverted  instrument,  he  may  minister  to  viti 
ated  tastes,  and  help  to  corrupt,  to  enervate,  to  debase. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  says  a  writer  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  "  for  a  person  unacquainted  with  dramatic 
representations  to  understand  the  effect  produced  on  a 
mixed  mass  of  the  people,  when  a  striking  sentiment  is 
uttered  by  a  popular  actor.  The  conviction  is  instan 
taneous.  Hundreds  of  stormy  voices  are  awakened; 
the  spirit  of  every  individual  is  in  arms  ;  and  a  thousand 
faces  are  lighted  up,  which,  a  moment  before,  seemed 
calm  and  powerless  ;  and  their  impression  is  not  so 
transient  as  may  be  thought.  It  is  carried  home  and 
nursed  till  it  ripens.  It  is  a  germ  which  blossoms  out 
into  patriotism,  or  runs  up  rank  into  prejudice  or  pas- 


430      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OP  AN  ACTRESS. 

sion.  It  is  intellectual  property  honestly  acquired. 
Men  are  often  amused,  and  sometimes  instructed,  by 
books.  But  a  tragedy  is  a  great  moral  lesson,  read  to 
two  senses  at  once ;  and  the  eye  and  the  ear  are  both 
held  in  alliance  to  retain  the  impression  which  the  actor 
has  produced." 

Lord  Bacon  tells  us  that  "the  drama  is  as  history 
brought  before  the  eyes.  It  presents  the  images  of 
things  as  if  they  were  present,  while  history  treats  of 
them  as  things  past." 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  says,  "  Every  establishment 
that  tends  to  the  cultivation  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
mind,  as  distinct  from  those  of  the  sense,  may  be  con 
sidered  as  an  inferior  school  of  morality,  where  the 
mind  is  polished  and  prepared  for  higher  attainments." 

D 'Israeli  (the  elder)  declares  that  "  the  stage  is  a 
supplement  to  the  pulpit,  where  virtue,  according  to 
Plato's  sublime  idea,  moves  our  love  and  affection  when 
made  visible  to  the  eye." 

It  was  in  the  age  of  the  wise  Solon,  something  more 
than  two  thousand  four  hundred  years  ago,  that  the 
rude  dramatic  attempts  of  Thespis  awoke  the  admira 
tion  of  the  Athenians.  The  performances  he  instituted 
were  a  species  of  monologue,  relieved  by  chorus.  Upon 
this  imperfect  foundation  the  noble  JEschylus  built  the 
classic  drama,  and  gained  the  name  of  the  "  father  of 
tragic  song."  Since  that  period,  in  those  countries 
where  civilization  has  made  the  most  rapid  progress, 
where  the  social  tone  has  been  most  elevated,  where 
taste  and  refinement  have  superseded  mere  sensuality, 
the  Drama  has  held  her  most  prosperous  sway.  Dra 
matic  art  was  at  its  zenith  in  Rome  during  the  Augustan 
age ;  in  Greece  when  JEschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Eu 
ripides  taught  in  her  dramatic  temples  ;  in  France  dur- 


PROGRESS  OF  THE  DRAMA  WITH  CIVILIZATION.    431 

ing  the  so  called  "  golden  reign  "  of  Louis  XIV.,  when 
Corneille  and  Eacine  wrote,  not  merely  moral,  but  ab 
solutely  religious  plays ;  and  even  Voltaire  impressed 
piety  into  his  tragedies.  (That  his  other  works  are 
pervaded  with  an  opposite  spirit  does  not  alter  this  fact.) 
Dr.  Isaac  Watts,  the  distinguished,  divine,  says,  "  What 
a  noble  use  have  Eacine  and  Corneille  made  of  Chris 
tian  subjects  in  some  of  their  best  tragedies  !  " 

In  England  the  drama  —  though  often  lamentably 
misused  and  degraded  —  shed  glory  upon  the  reigns  of 
Elizabeth  and  Anne,  and  is  held  in  increasing  honor  at 
the  present  epoch  —  the  most  peaceful  and  prosperous 
with  which  that  kingdom  has  ever  been  blessed. 

Let  us  go  back  farther,  even  to  the  period  of  the  first 
Christian  era,  and  learn  whether  the  outcry  against 
theatres  is  justified  by  the  records  of  antiquity.  There 
were  theatres  in  Jerusalem  when  our  Savior  came 
upon  earth.  Yet  by  no  sign  does  he  point  them  out  as 
fatally  pernicious;  by  no  word,  no  implication,  even, 
does  he  denounce  them. 

There  were  theatres  at  Damascus,  at  Ephesus, 
at  Antioch,  at  Corinth,  at  Athens,  at  Thessalonica, 
at  Philippi,  at  Alexandria,  at  Eome.  The  apostles 
preached  the  gospel  in  those  cities,  and  reproved  many 
vices ;  yet  by  no  syllable  of  rebuke  do  they  designate 
the  theatre  as  immoral.  Is  it  likely  if  an  institution, 
which  was  to  perpetuate  itself  down  to  the  present  day, 
were  essentially  demoralizing,  it  would  have  escaped 
the  breath  of  their  holy  denunciation  ? 

St.  Paul  is  called  the  most  learned  of  the  apostles ; 
and  in  his  teachings  he  quotes  from  three  Greek  dra 
matic  poets  —  from  Arastus,  of  Cilicia  ;  from  Epimeni- 
des,  of  Crete  ;  and  from  Menander,  the  Athenian ;  thus 


432      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

giving  his  own  coyntenance  to  the  theatre  by  his  famil 
iar  use  of  dramatic  poetry. 

In  the  sacred  Scriptures  there  is  not  a  single  passage 
which,  by  any  fair  inference,  can  be  distorted  into  a 
condemnation  of  theatrical  entertainments.  And  yet 
how  many  sincere  and  truth-loving  Christians  believe  it 
to  be  their  duty  to  raise  a  hue  and  cry  against  the  stage ! 

A  distinguished  clergyman  of  our  own  land  lately 
remarked,  from  the  pulpit,  that  he  feared  there  were 
many  persons,  even  among  the  denouncers  of  the  drama, 
who  were  beneath  a  taste  for  the  stage  rather  than  above 
it ;  conveying  the  idea  that  the  cultivation  of  those  in 
tellectual  tastes  and  moral  sympathies  which  find  their 
gratification  in  dramatic  performances,  was  a  step  in 
moral  advancement  which  many  unsympathizing  de- 
criers  of  the  stage  would  not,  or  could  not,  take. 

The  parables  are  truths  enveloped  in  fiction.  The 
drama  merely  represents  in  action  what  the  parable  and 
similar  fictions  inculcate  by  written  or  oral  teaching. 
The  play  is  but  the  dramatized  form  of  the  poem,  the 
novel,  history,  or  the  parable.  And  the  mind  is  more 
vividly  impressed  by  what  it  sees  enacted  than  by  what 
it  hears  related. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  parable  of  the  prodigal  son. 
There  can  be  no  one  so  obtuse  as  not  to  admit  the  force 
and  beauty  of  the  illustration  intended  to  be  conveyed 
in  it.  Suppose  that  some  dramatist,  to  enforce  the 
lesson  of  paternal  forgiveness  upon  minds  which  can  be 
more  deeply  penetrated  by  visible  symbols  than  by 
lecture,  throws  the  parable  into  dramatic  form,  bringing 
out  in  appropriate  language  the  whole  moral  of  the 
story,  and  has  it  represented  in  a  theatre.  Does  the 
mere  translation  of  the  parable  into  represented  action 


DR.    WATTS    OX    THE    DRAMA.  433 

render  it  pernicious  ?  In  this  illustration  we  have  the 
whole  principle  of  the  drama. 

A  few  seasons  ago  this  very  parable  was  produced  as 
a  spectacle  at  Drury  Lane,  under  the  name  of  Azael. 
It  met  with  very  decided  success.  I  am  not  certain, 
but  my  impression  is  that  it  was  translated  from  the 
French. 

Dr.  Isaac  "Watts,  the  author  of  Divine  Hymns,  thus 
alludes  to  the  fitness  of  scriptural  subjects  for  dramatic 
exposition :  "  If  the  trifling  and  incredible  tales  that 
furnish  out  a  tragedy  are  so  armed  by  art  and  fancy  as 
to  become  sovereign  of  the  rational  powers,  to  tri 
umph  over  the  affections,  and  manage  our  smiles  and 
our  tears  at  pleasure,  how  wondrous  a  conquest  might 
be  obtained  over  a  wide  world,  and  reduce  it  at  least 
to  sobriety,  if  the  same  happy  talent  were  employed 
in  dressing  scenes  of  religion  in  their  proper  figures  of 
majesty,  sweetness,  and  terror !  The  affairs  of  this  life, 
with  reference  to  a  life  to  come,  would  shine  brightly  in 
a  dramatic  description." 

This  is  high  authority  in  favor  of  the  drama.  As  a 
strong  aid  to  my  own  imperfectly  expressed  arguments  in 
its  defence,  I  cull  a  few  opinions  from  sources  which  com 
mand  reverence  out  of  the  multitude  that  might  be 
given,  did  space  allow.  The  authorities  I  shall  cite  are 
such  as  should  make  any  man  pause  before  he  ventures 
unconditionally  to  denounce  the  stage. 

Marcus  Aurelius,  an  emperor  distinguished  for  his 
piety,  says,  "  Tragedies  were  first  brought  in  and  insti 
tuted  to  put  men  in  mind  of  worldly  chances  and  casual 
ties.  After  the  tragedy,  the  comcedia  retus,  or  ancient 
comedy,  was  brought  in,  which  had  the  liberty  to  inveigh 
against  personal  vices ;  being,  therefore,  through  this, 
28 


434      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

her  freedom  and  liberty  of  speech,  of  very  good  use  and 
effect  to  restrain  men  from  pride  and  arrogance ;  to  which 
end  H  was  that  Diogenes  took  also  the  same  liberty." 

Martin  Luther,  on  the  subject  of  the  stage,  says,* 
"  In  ancient  times  the  dramatic  art  has  been  honored 
by  being  made  subservient  to  religion  and  morality ;  and 
in  the  most  enlightened  country  of  antiquity,  in  Greece, 
the  theatre  was  supported  by  the  state.  The  dramatic 
nature  of  the  dialogues  of  Plato  has  always  been  justly 
celebrated ;  and  from  this  we  may  conceive  the  great 
charm  of  dramatic  poetry.  Action  is  the  true  enjoy 
ment  of  life ;  nay,  life  itself.  The  great  bulk  of  man 
kind  are,  either  from  their  situation  or  their  incapacity 
for  uncommon  efforts,  confined  within  a  narrow  circle 
of  operations  ;  of  all  amusements,  therefore,  the  theatre 
is  the  most  profitable,  for  there  we  see  important  actions 
when  we  cannot  act  importantly  ourselves.  It  affords 
us  a  renovated  picture  of  life,  a  compendium  of  what 
ever  is  animated  and  interesting  in  human  existence. 
The  susceptible  youth  opens  his  heart  to  every  elevated 
feeling  —  the  philosopher  finds  a  subject  for  the  deepest 
reflections  on  the  nature  and  constitution  of  man." 

In  another  work,  Martin  Luther  says,f  "And,  in 
deed,  Christians  ought  not  altogether  to  fly  and  abstain 
from  comedies,  because  now  and  then  gross  tricks  and 
dallying  passages  are  acted  therein ;  for  then  it  will  fol 
low,  that,  by  reason  thereof,  we  should  also  abstain  from 
reading  the  Bible.  Therefore  it  is  of  no  value  that  some 
allege  such  and  the  like  things,  and  for  these  causes 
would  forbid  Christians  to  read  or  act  comedies." 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Knox,  in   his  Essays,  says,  "  There 

*  See  Luther's  Tishgesprache. 

f  See  Bell's  translation  of  Mart.  Lutheri  Colloquia  Mensalia. 


PHILIP   MELANCTHON   ON   THE    STAGE.  435 

seems  to  me  to  be  no  method  more  effectual  of  soften 
ing  the  ferocity  and  improving  the  minds  of  the  lower 
classes  of  a  great  capital  than  the  frequent  exhibitions 
of  tragical  pieces,  in  which  the  distress  is  carried  to  the 
highest  extreme,  and  the  moral  is  at  once  self-evident, 
affecting,  and  instructive.  The  multitudes  of  those  who 
cannot  read,  or,  if  they  could,  have  neither  time  nor 
abilities  for  deriving  much  advantage  from  reading,  are 
powerfully  impressed,  through  the  medium  of  the  eyes 
and  ears,  with  those  important  truths  which,  while  they 
illuminate  the  understanding,  correct  and  mollify  the 
heart.  Benevolence,  justice,  heroism,  and  the  wisdom 
of  moderating  the  passions  are  plainly  pointed  out,  and 
forcibly  recommended  to  those  savage  sons  of  unculti 
vated  nature  who  have  few  opportunities,  and  would 
have  no  inclination,  for  instruction,  if  it  did  not  present 
itself  in  the  form  of  a  delightful  amusement." 

Philip  Melancthon  says,*  "  On  frequent  reflection 
concerning  the  manners  and  discipline  of  mankind,  I 
greatly  admire  the  wisdom  of  the  Greeks,  who  at  the 
commencement  exhibited  tragedies  to  the  people,  by  no 
means  for  the  purpose  of  mere  amusement,  as  is  com 
monly  thought,  but  much  more  on  this  account,  that,  by 
the  consideration  of  heinous  examples  and  misfortunes, 
they  might  turn  their  rude  and  fierce  spirits  to  modera 
tion  and  the  bridling  of  undue  desires.  These  things, 
therefore,  were  acted,  beheld,  read,  and  listened  to, 
both  by  the  philosophers  and  the  people,  not  as  mere 
romances,  but  as  instructions  for  the  government  of  life. 
Men  were  thus  warned  of  the  causes  of  human  calami 
ties,  which  in  those  examples  they  saw  brought  on  and 
increased  by  depraved  desires." 

*  EpLstola  de  legendis  Tragoediis  et  Comcediis. 


436       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Lord  Bacon  says,*  "  Dramatic  poesy,  which  has  the 
theatre  for  its  world,  is  of  excellent  use,  if  soundly  ad 
ministered.  The  stage  can  do  much,  either  for  corrup 
tion  or  discipline." 

Dr.  Blair,  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  divines,  says, 
"  Dramatic  poetry  has,  among  civilized  nations,  been  al 
ways  considered  a  rational  and  useful  entertainment, 
and  judged  worthy  of  careful  and  serious  discussion. 
As  tragedy  is  a  high  and  distinguishing  species  of  com 
position,  so  also,  in  its  general  strain  and  spirit,  it  is 
favorable  to  virtue ;  and,  therefore,  though  dramatic 
writers  may,  sometimes,  like  other  writers,  be  guilty  of 
improprieties,  though  they  may  fail  in  placing  virtue 
forcibly  in  the  due  point  of  light,  yet  no  reasonable 
person  can  deny  tragedy  to  be  a  reasonable  species 
of  composition.  Taking  tragedies  complexly,  I  am 
fully  persuaded  that  the  impressions  left  by  them  upon 
the  mind  are,  on  the  whole,  favorable  to  virtue  and 
good  dispositions.  And,  therefore,  the  zeal  which  some 
pious  men  have  shown  against  the  entertainment  of  the 
theatre  must  rest  only  on  the  abuse  of  comedy,  which, 
indeed,  has  frequently  been  so  great  as  to  justify  very 
severe  censures  against  it.  I  am  happy,  however,  to 
have  it  in  my  power  to  observe,  that,  of  late  years,  a 
sensible  reformation  has  begun  to  take  place  in  English 
comedy." 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  says,f  "  Comedy  is  an  imitation 
of  the  common  errors  of  our  life,  which  the  poet  rep 
resented  in  the  most  ludicrous  sort  that  may  be,  so  as  it 
is  impossible  that  any  beholder  can  be  content  to  be 
such  a  one.  And  little  reason  hath  any  man  to  say 
that  men  learn  the  evil  by  seeing  it  so  set  out ;  since 

*  In  the  Essay  De  Augmentis  Scientiarium. 
f  See  his  Defence  of  Poesie. 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT    OX   THE    STAGE.  437 

there  is  no  man  living,  but,  by  the  force  truth  has 
in  his  nature,  no  sooner  seeth  these  men  play  their 
parts  but  wisheth  them  'in  pistrinum  ;'  so  that  the  right 
use  of  comedy  will,  I  think,  by  nobody  be  blamed.  And 
much  less  the  high  and  excellent  tragedy,  that  openeth 
the  greatest  wounds,  and  showeth  forth  the  ulcers  that 
are  covered  with  tissue  ;  that  maketh  kings  fear  to 
be  tyrants,  and  tyrants  to  manifest  their  tyrannical 
humors ;  that,  with  stirring  the  effects  of  admiration  and 
commiseration,  teacheth  the  uncertainty  of  the  world, 
and  upon  how  weak  foundations  gilded  roofs  are  builded." 

Dr.  Gregory,  in  his  "  Legacy  to  his  Daughter,"  says, 
"  I  know  no  entertainment  that  gives  such  pleasure  to 
any  person  of  sentiment  or  humor  as  the  theatre." 

Sir  Walter  Scott  says,*  "  The  supreme  Being,  who 
claimed  the  seventh  day  as  his  own,  allowed  the  other 
six  days  of  the  week  for  purposes  merely  human. 
When  the  necessity  for  daily  labor  is  removed,  and  the 
call  of  social  duty  fulfilled,  that  of  moderate  and  timely 
amusement  claims  its  place,  as  a  want  inherent  in  our 
nature.  To  relieve  this  want,  and  fill  up  the  mental 
vacancy,  games  are  devised,  books  are  written,  music  is 
composed,  spectacles  and  plays  are  invented  and  ex 
hibited.  And  if  these  last  have  a  moral  and  virtuous 
tendency ;  if  the  sentiments  expressed  tend  to  rouse  our 
love  of  what  is  noble,  and  our  contempt  of  what  is 
mean  ;  if  they  unite  hundreds  in  a  sympathetic  admira 
tion  of  virtue,  abhorrence  of  vice,  or  derision  of  folly,  —  it 
will  remain  to  be  shown  how  far  the  spectator  is  more 
criminally  engaged  than  if  he  had  passed  the  evening  in 
the  idle  gossip  of  society,  in  the  feverish  pursuits  of  ambi- 

*  Conclusion  of  the  article  Drama,  in  the  Supplement  to  Encyc. 
Brit.,  vol.  iii.  p.  671. 


438      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

tion,  or  in  the  unsated  and  insatiable  struggle  after 
gain  —  the  grave  employments  of  the  present  life  but 
equally  unconnected  with  our  existence  hereafter"  Were 
it  not  presumption,  I  should  be  inclined  to  differ  with 
the  assertion  in  the  last  line ;  for  can  the  manner  in 
which  we  employ  a  single  moment  here  be  unconnected 
with  our  existence  hereafter  ?  I  think  not. 

The  testimony  of  such  minds  and  such  men  in  favor 
of  the  stage  are  at  least  worthy  of  attentive  considera 
tion.  And,  be  it  observed,  they  address  themselves  to 
the  most  conscientious  Christians  as  much,  or  more, 
than  to  the  man  who  makes  no  particular  profession  of 
religious  faith. 

The  stage,  in  almost  all  lands,  and  for  a  long  series 
of  years,  has  been  protected  and  encouraged  by  govern 
ments.  Would  this  have  been  the  case  if  legislators 
had  not  found  it  conducive  to  the  general  well  being  of 
communities,  and  even  a  medium  of  political  as  well 
as  of  social  and  moral  utility  ? 

Calcraft,  in  his  able  and  scholarly  Defence  of  the 
Stage,  mentions  the  act  of  Parliament  from  which  the 
patent  of  the  present  Theatre  Royal  in  Dublin  (men 
tioned  in  an  earlier  chapter  of  these  memoirs)  is  derived, 
as  "  containing  these  words  in  the  preamble  — i  Whereas 
the  establishing  a  well-regulated  theatre  in  the  city  of 
Dublin,  being  the  residence  of  the  chief  governor  or 
governors  of  Ireland,  will  be  productive  of  advantage, 
and  tend  to  improve  the  morals  of  the  people,'  &c. 
And  the  patent  itself  contains  the  royal  intention  and 
expectations  distinctly  expressed  in  these  words :  '  That 
the  theatre,  in  future,  may  be  instrumental  to  the  cause 
of  virtue  and  instruction  to  human  life.'  After  which 
follow  various  restrictions,  forbidding  any  performances 
tending  to  profaneness,  disloyalty,  or  indecency." 


USE   AND    ABUSE.  439 

If,  then,  the  stage  be  an  institution  acknowledged  by 
the  protection  of  governments  as  much  as  any  which  & 
passion  for  literature,  or  art,  or  science  among  men  has 
established,  is  there  not  more  wisdom  in  helping  to  ele 
vate  and  guide  its  operations  than  in  denouncing  and 
traducing  the  institution  itself? 

Art  is  either  right  or  it  is  wrong.  The  sanctioning 
voices  of  ages  have  pronounced  it  to  be  right.  One 
branch  of  art  includes  the  drama.  Shall  this  branch  be 
lopped  off  because  the  canker  worm  of  evil  has  entered 
some  of  its  fruit  ?  Like  sculpture,  like  painting,  like 
music,  like  history,  like  the  poem,  the  novel,  —  like 
every  thing  that  ministers  to  faculties,  which  distinguish 
us  from  the  brute  creation,  —  the  drama  is  either  an 
instrument  of  good  or  evil,  as  it  is  rendered  the  one  or 
the  other  by  the  use  or  abuse.  This  is  the  veriest 
truism.  The  theatre,  like  the  press,  is  one  of  the  most 
powerful  organs  for  the  diffusion  of  salutary  or  per 
nicious  influences.  Vicious  books  are  often  printed ; 
but  shall  we,  therefore,  extirpate  the  press  ?  Plays  of 
questionable  morality  are  sometimes  enacted ;  but  is 
that  a  cause  for  abolishing  the  stage  —  sacrificing  for  a 
temporary  abuse  the  great  and  permanent  use  ?  False 
doctrines,  and  what  are  called  heresies,  have  been 
preached  from  many  a  pulpit,  and  have  led  to  the  most 
fearful  consequences  ;  but  shall  the  church  therefore  be 
calumniated?  At  the  bar,  the  most  flagrant  wrongs 
have  grown  out  of  the  perversion  of  legal  exposition  ; 
but  shall  law,  therefore,  be  banished  from  the  land? 
Corrupt  judges  have  given  unjust  sentences  ;  shall  the 
bench,  therefore,  be  denounced  ?  Physicians  have  de 
stroyed  instead  of  preserving  life  ;  shall  the  science  of 
medicine,  therefore,  be  set  aside  ?  Forgeries  have  been 
committed ;  shall  penmanship,  therefore,  be  wholly  for- 


440       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

bidden  ?  And  yet,  if  in  one  case  abuse  counteract  use, 
why  not  in  all  ? 

A  royal  governor  of  Virginia  (Sir  William  Berkeley) 
said,*  "  I  thank  God  that  there  are  no  free  schools  nor 
printing ;  and  I  hope  we  shall  not  have  them  these  hun 
dred  years  —  for  learning  has  brought  disobedience, 
and  heresies,  and  sects  into  the  world,  and  printing  has 
divulged  them,  and  libels  against  the  best  governments. 
God  keep  us  from  both ! "  This  assertion  is  literally 
true ;  but  the  royal  governor  looked  but  at  one  side  of 
the  question.  The  inveighers  against  the  theatre  do 
precisely  the  same.  Because  there  are  abuses,  (most 
unquestionably  separable  from  the  use,)  is  that  a  wise 
or  just  argument  for  the  holy  indignation  often  expressed 
against  the  theatre  and  its  upholders  ?  About  as  wise 
and  as  just  as  were  Sir  William  Berkeley's  objections 
to  the  diffusion  of  knowledge. 

Reform  the  errors  of  the  stage,  if  you  would  serve 
the  cause  of  human  progress.  No  manager  will  pro 
duce  plays  that  do  not  draw.  It  lies,  then,  with  audi 
ences  to  pronounce  what  representations  shall  receive 
their  suffrages. 

"  The  drama's  laws  the  drama's  patrons  make." 

But  there  has  lately  been  a  marked  improvement  in 
the  class  of  plays  offered  to  the  public.  That  manager 
would  be  a  bold  one,  who,  at  the  Howard  Athenosuin,  in 
Boston,  or  at  Niblo's  in  New  York,  would  produce  a  play 
of  decided  immoral  tendency.  His  theatre  would  soon 
be  closed,  even  without  any  loud  denunciations  from  its 
outraged  supporters.  The  community  would  forsake 
the  establishment,  and  leave  the  "  beggarly  account  of 

*  See  Hildreth's  History  of  the  United  States,  vol.  i.  p.  524. 


CLERICAL    DRAMATISTS.  441 

empty  boxes "  to  proclaim  their  disapproval.  Xu- 
merous  other  theatres  in  this  country,  as  in  England, 
are  becoming  more  and  more  cautious  in  the  choice  of 
plays  to  be  enacted  within  their  walls.  In  England,  the 
voice  of  the  licenser  is  a  check  upon  the  representa 
tion  of  immoral  dramas ;  in  this  country,  the  voice  of 
the  people  is  a  far  more  powerful  organ  than  that  of  any 
royal  licenser  in  exerting  a  similar  control. 

Passages,  even  in  Shakspeare,  which  were  listened  to 
by  audiences  a  few  years  ago  without  manifestations  of 
displeasure,  are  now  entirely  omitted  by  actors,  and,  if 
spoken,  would  inevitably  be  hissed.  I  do  not  mean  to 
assert  that  there  are  not  passages  left  which  ought  to  be 
expunged ;  but  I  believe  that,  in  time,  they  will  not  be 
tolerated ;  and  I  know  that  it  is  the  fault,  not  of  the  actor, 
but  of  the  audience,  if  their  ears  are  ever  offended.  The 
actor  is  supposed  to  speak  only  what  is  set  down  for  him ; 
and,  according  to  the  strict  regulations  of  some  theatres, 
he  would  be  heavily  fined  if  he  deviated,  upon  his  own 
responsibility,  from  the  text. 

There  are  plays  in  abundance  which  the  most  pious 
parent  may  take  his  children  to  witness  with  profit. 
Men  who  have  won  the  highest  distinctions,  not  through 
their  genius  only,  but  for  the  piety  and  purity  of  their 
lives,  have  devoted  their  talents  to  writing  for  the  stage. 

More  than  two  hundred  English  clergymen  have  been 
dramatic  authors.* 

The  Archbishop  Gregory  Nazianzen  wrote  sacred 
dramas  from  the  histories  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa 
ment,  which  were  enacted  upon  the  stage  at  Constanti 
nople.  From  that  stage  pagan  plays  were  consequently 
banished.f 

*  See  Baker's  Biographia  Dramatica. 

f  See  Warton's  History  of  Eng.  Poet.,  vol.  iii.  p.  196. 


442       AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

Apollinaris,  Bishop  of  Laodicea,  wrote  scriptural 
tragedies  and  comedies. 

In  ancient  times,  mysteries  and  moralities  were  not 
only  written,  but  acted,  by  the  clergy. 

Sir  Thomas  More,  the  renowned  statesman,  both 
wrote  and  acted  "  interludes,"  as  they  were  called. 

Milton  wrote  the  tragic  poem  of  Samson  Agonistes, 
and  the  masks  of  Arcades  and  Comus.  The  latter  still 
keeps  the  stage.  In  the  preface  to  his  Samson  Ago 
nistes,  he  says,  "  Tragedy,  as  it  was  anciently  composed, 
hath  ever  been  held  the  greatest,  moralest,  and  most 
profitable  of  all  other  poems.  Heretofore,  men  in 
highest  dignity  have  labored  not  a  little  to  be  thought 
able  to  compose  a  tragedy." 

Dr.  Edward  Young,  the  author  of  Night  Thoughts, 
wrote  the  tragedies  of  the  Revenge,  Busiris,  and  the 
Brothers.  The  latter  was  enacted  for  the  express  pur 
pose  of  adding  the  proceeds  to  the  fund  for  the  propa 
gation  of  the  gospel  in  foreign  lands. 

The  eloquent  Rev.  C.  Maturin  is  the  author  of  Ber 
tram,  (a  favorite  character  of  many  distinguished  tragedi 
ans,)  also  of  Manuel,  Fredolfo,  and  Osmyn  the  Renegade. 

The  Rev.  H.  Milman,  author  of  the  History  of  Chris 
tianity,  wrote  Fazio,  in  which  the  genius  of  Miss 
O'Neil  shone  preeminent.  He  also  wrote  Belshazzar's 
Feast,  the  Fall  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  Martyr  of 
Antioch. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Croly  wrote  Catiline,  and  a  comedy, 
which  has  been  represented  with  great  success,  entitled 
Pride  shall  have  a  Fall. 

The  pious  Addison  wrote  the  tragedy  of  Cato,  the 
comedy  of  the  Drummer,  and  the  opera  of  Rosamond. 

Dr.  Johnson  wrote  the  tragedy  of  Irene. 


USES    OF   THE    DRAMA.  443 

Coleridge  wrote  two  tragedies,  Remorse  and  Za- 
polya,  and  translated  Schiller's  "Wallenstein. 

Thomson,  Goldsmith,  Miss  Hannah  More,  Miss 
Joanna  Baillie,  Miss  Mitford,  have  all  contributed  to 
the  drama. 

To  these,  did  space  permit,  I  might  add  the  names 
of  many  other  authors,  as  noted  for  their  religious  at 
tributes  as  for  their  great  gifts. 

The  soundest  philosophers  have  declared  that  intel 
lectual  recreation  was  needful  to  the  well  being  and 
mental  health  of  man,  and  they  have  pronounced  the 
stage  to  be  one  of  the  highest  sources  of  such  recrea 
tion.  That  rational  amusement  is  a  necessity  of  man's 
nature,  imperatively  demanded,  Pindar  and  Aristotle 
have  given  their  testimony.  The  former  says,  "  Rest 
and  enjoyment  are  universal  physicians ; "  the  latter, 
that  "  it  is  impossible  for  men  to  live  in  continual 
labor — repose  and  games  must  succeed  to  cares  and 
watching." 

To  unite  amusement  with  instruction  is  to  give  relish 
to  nourishment.  The  man  whose  energies  are  worn  out 
with  the  daily  struggles  in  life,  when  he  sees  portrayed 
the  sterner  battle  of  some  other  life  on  the  mimic  world 
called  the  stage,  forgets  the  cares  that  press  too  heavily 
on  his  own  heart  and  paralyze  its  strength ;  he  passes 
out  of  the  narrow  circle  in  which  his  selfhood  is  hourly 
bound;  his  faculties  are  quickened  and  refreshed  by 
listening  to  sparkling  wit ;  the  finest  chords  within  his 
bosom  are  stirred  by  the  breath  of  the  poet's  inspirations. 
Emotions  —  devotional,  heroic,  patriotic,  or  soothingly 
domestic  —  sweep  over  his  prostrate  spirit,  and  lift  it  up 
from  the  contact  with  the  dust  of  realities.  He  returns 
to  his  labors  invigorated,  strengthened,  and  elevated  by 


444      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

the  relaxation.  In  our  working-day  community,  it  is  to 
such  men  that  the  theatre  performs  one  of  its  chief  uses. 
But  there  are  other  uses  which  address  themselves  to 
the  mass.  Pope  tells  us,  — 

"  To  make  mankind,  in  conscious  virtue  bold, 
Live  o'er  each  scene,  and  be  what  they  behold ; 
For  this  the  Tragic  Muse  first  trod  the  stage, 
Commanding  tears  to  stream  through  every  age."  * 

And  even  the  stern  Crabbe  has  said,t  — 

"  Yet  Virtue  owns  the  Tragic  Muse  a  friend ; 
Fable  her  means  —  morality  her  end. 
She  makes  the  vile  to  Virtue  yield  applause, 
And  own  her  sceptre  while  they  break  her  laws  ; 
For  vice  in  others  is  abhorred  of  all, 
And  villains  triumph  when  the  worthless  fall." 

Shakspeare,  the  great  mind-reader,  the  most  thorough 
grasper  of  all  the  subtleties  of  human  character,  wrote 
no  fiction  when  he  said,  — 

"  Guilty  creatures,  sitting  at  a  play, 
Have,  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene, 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 
They  have  proclaimed  their  malefactions." 

The  annals  of  the  stage  contain  a  number  of  startling 
instances  where  this  has  been  literally  the  case.  A 
remarkable  one  is  recorded  in  the  life  of  the  English 
actor  Ross.  In  my  own  comparatively  brief  experience 
upon  the  stage,  I  have  been  an  eye  witness  to  salutary 
effects  of  this  description.  One  occasion  I  have  related 
in  an  earlier  chapter  of  these  memoirs.  If  the  acting  of 
a  play  has  been  instrumental  in  causing  "joy  among  the 

*  Prologue  to  Addison's  Tragedy  of  Cato,  by  Alexander  Pope. 
Bell's  British  Theatre, 
•j-  The  Library,  a  Poem. 


TRUE    POSITION    OF   ACTORS.  445 

angels  of  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth,"  what 
stronger  proof  can  there  be  that  the  theatre  is  a  useful 
institution  ? 

If  the  lingering  abuses  in  our  theatres  are  to  be 
reformed,  it  can  only  be  done  by  the  mediation  of  good 
men,  "not  so  absolute  in  goodness  as  to  forget  what 
human  frailty  is,"  who,  discarding  the  illiberal  spirit 
which  denounces  without  investigating,  will  first  examine 
the  reasons  of  existing  abuses,  then  help  to  remedy  them 
by  their  own  presence  amongst  the  audience. 

That  the  very  worst  abuse  with  which  any  theatre 
can  be  taxed  may  be  abolished,  has  been  proved  at  the 
Howard  Athenaeum,  in  Boston,  the  Museum,  and,  indeed, 
all  the  theatres  in  that  city,  for  five  years,  and  at  Nib- 
lo's,  in  New  York,  for  a  period  even  longer.  I  aUude 
to  the  demoralizing  effect  of  allowing  any  portion  of  the 
theatre  to  be  set  aside  for  the  reception  of  a  class  who 
do  not  come  to  witness  the  play.  I  believe  there  have 
been  other  theatres  in  this  country  where  this  outrage 
upon  morality  is  not  tolerated,  and  the  establishments 
have  been  as  prosperous  as  those  above  mentioned.  But 
this  is  a  difficult  topic  for  a  woman  to  touch  upon. 

I  cannot  close  these  remarks  upon  the  drama  and  the 
stage  without  a  few  words  on  the  true  position  of  actors. 
On  this  subject  very  erroneous  impressions  exist  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  do  not  frequent  theatres.  They  are 
apt  to  look  upon  the  actor  as  belonging  to  a  distinct 
portion  of  the  community,  dwelling  on  the  outer  side 
of  a  certain  conventional  pale  of  society,  which  he  is 
allowed  to  enter  only  by  courtesy,  unless  it  is  broken 
through  by  the  majesty  of  transcendent  talents. 

Let  us  examine  his  social  and  political  state  in  ancient 
times  when  the  stage  first  sprang  into  existence.  The 


446      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

profession  of  an  actor  was  looked  upon  as  honorable 
among  the  Greeks.  Some  of  the  highest  offices  of  the 
state  were  held  by  players.  JEschylus,  who  framed  the 
regular  drama,  held  command  at  Marathon  under  Mil- 
tiades.  He  was  at  once  an  actor  and  author.  Sophocles 
was  a  man  of  high  rank,  and  served  under  the  great 
Pericles.  He  was  raised  to  the  office  of  archon.  He 
appeared  in  his  own  tragedies,  and  sang  on  the  stage  to 
the  music  of  the  lyre.  Euripides,  who  also  acted  in  his 
own  productions,  was  a  distinguished  officer. 

The  actor  Neoptolemus,  who  was  also  a  tragic  poet, 
was  an  ambassador  in  an  important  mission. 

Aristodemus  was  also  employed  on  a  momentous  em 
bassy.  At  the  solicitation  of  Demosthenes  he  received 
the  reward  of  a  golden  crown,  bestowed  for  the  faithful 
administration  of  public  affairs. 

Cicero  himself  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Roscius,  his 
early  tutor.  The  great  orator  says  of  the  equally  great 
actor,  "  The  excellences  of  Roscius  became  proverbial ; 
and  the  greatest  praise  that  could  be  given  to  men  of 
genius  in  any  particular  profession  was,  '  that  each  was 
a  Roscius  in  his  art.'  " 

Lcelius,  called  "  the  wise,"  and  Scipio  Africanus  the 
younger,  were  the  warm  friends  and  associates  of  the 
actor  Terence. 

Julius  Caesar  mentions  Menander  and  Terence  with 
respectful  admiration. 

The  noble  Brutus  thought  it  was  no  waste  of  time  to 
journey  from  Rome  to  Naples  solely  to  see  an  excellent 
company  of  comedians.  Their  performances  delighted 
him  so  much  that  he  sent  them  to  Rome  with  letters  to 
Cicero.  They  were  honored  with  the  latter's  immediate 
patronage. 


A    WORD    OF   FAREWELL.  447 

Actors  in  all  ages  have  been  the  especial  favorites  of 
monarchs  and  high  dignitaries.  In  modern  times,  from 
Mrs.  Siddons  down  to  the  present  day,  they  have,  in 
common  with  other  artists,  been  received  in  the  highest 
society,  and  been  treated  with  marked  distinction. 

The  stage,  at  this  moment,  is  graced  by  members  of  the 
profession  who  have  been  the  honored  guests  of  nobles, 
and  whom  the  magnates  of  more  than  one  land  have 
been  proud  to  welcome  at  their  firesides.  The  odium 
which  has  attached  itself  to  some  whose  talents  were  as 
a  brilliant  setting  which  lacked  the  centre  gem  of  para 
mount  value  can  cast  no  more  real  blemish  upon  those 
who  have  not  merited  the  same  reproach  than  the 
despotism  of  one  king  can  darken  the  reign  of  his 
successors. 

If  I  have  somewhat  warmly  pleaded  the  cause  of  the 
stage  and  the  actor,  I  hope  my  testimony  has  been  given 
as  though  I  stood  in  the  courts  of  Areopagus,  where  no 
flowers  of  rhetoric  were  permitted  to  adorn  and  falsely 
color  the  pleader's  simple  statement.  I  have  looked 
upon  the  citation  of  facts  as  my  strongest  arguments. 
These,  I  think,  will  be  patiently  heard  and  justly  weighed 
by  the  impartial  tribunal  of  the  American  public,  before 
which  I  stand  to  add  my  feeble  voice  to  those  already 
raised  against  the  wrongs  received  by  the  stage,  the 
drama,  and  the  profession. 

To  the  members  of  that  profession,  whose  labors  and 
honors  I  shall  so  soon  cease  to  share,  I  would  say,  in 
bidding  them  farewell,  that  there  are  many  amongst 
them  whom  I  esteem,  some  to  whom  I  am  warmly 
attached,  and  more  whose  career  I  shall  watch  with 
anxious  interest.  I  would  beg  them  to  believe  that  I 
sympathize  in  their  toils  —  I  comprehend  their  sacri- 


448      AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 

fices  —  I  appreciate  their  exertions  —  I  respect  their 
virtues ;  and  I  cherish  the  hope,  that,  in  ceasing  to  be 
ranked  amongst  their  number,  I  shall  not  wholly  be 
forgotten  by  them. 


In  writing  these  memoirs,  although  they  were  ex 
pressly  designed  for  publication,  I  have  endeavored  to 
divest  myself  of  all  remembrance  of  the  reader,  in  the 
same  degree  that  I  should  mentally  abstract  and  sepa 
rate  myself  from  an  audience  while  interpreting  a 
character  upon  the  stage.  By  accomplishing  this  de 
sired  end,  I  have  been  enabled  to  give  a  more  unre 
served  transcript  of  events  than  would  otherwise  have 
been  possible. 

In  an  autobiography,  there  seems  a  degree  of  egotism 
in  the  constant  use  of  the  first  person  singular,  from 
which  I  have  in  vain  sought  some  method  of  escape. 
For  any  consequent  trenching  upon  the  borders  of  good 
taste,  I  hope  to  be  pardoned  as  for  an  unavoidable  lite 
rary  trespass.  I  have  endeavored  to  write  a  simple 
and  faithful  narrative  —  unambitious,  unembellished  — 
"nothing  extenuating,"  and,  assuredly,  "setting  down 
nothing  in  malice."  It  is  for  the  public  to  judge  how 
imperfectly  I  may  have  executed  my  task.  I  lay  down 
my  pen  with  a  sense  of  relief,  which  is  in  itself  a  guer 
don  ;  for  I  have  fulfilled  my  promise. 

"  Leave  here  the  pages  with  long  musings  curled, 
And  write  me  new  my  future's  epigraph  !  " 


or  TO  rne 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


JUL251996       FEB. 


;  o  1996 


12,000(11/95) 


ii,£i£ISKL§XL'BRARIES 


